Peanut Butter: The Long and Winding Road

I haven't published a blog post since last December, though I readily admit to having posted a number of long Facebook statuses. It feels good to be at the keyboard again. I am hoping to get back into a good writing rhythm now that the kids are back in school.

It has been a long day. It's 9 o'clock here and I'm already feeling pretty sleepy.

I have been working on a new food protocol (not my word). I started last week. I listened to a webinar by Brooke Castillo about weight loss. She had a lot of fascinating things to say.

As any of my faithful readers (the few of you that there are) know, I am not one to jump on a "diet" bandwagon. I've never eaten cabbage soup for days, eaten only while standing on my head or only things that fall naturally from the tree. So I'm typically pretty skeptical of any new ideas on how to view food.

That being said, over the years I have gleaned a lot of wisdom from different programs. My ears tend to perk up when I hear the same thing from multiple people. I feel like, if I'm hearing it from different people over a series of years, then there must be something to it.

Brooke's talk was another affirmation of things that I had previously heard.

My first foray into weight-loss (in any measurable way) was at Willow Creek in 99-00. I participated in the Weigh-Down Workshop, the brain child of Gwen Shamblin. It helped in a couple of ways. First, I began to realize that any eating plan that didn't include God's wisdom and strength was doomed. She was a huge proponent of eating only when you're physically hungry (go figure). She also asked that you eat only half of what was on your plate.

I liked the idea she espoused that talked about using food to fill a space meant for God to fill. That resonated with me. Eating when I'm physically hungry, (rather than on a predetermined schedule), yep, that makes sense as well.

Eating only half of the food on my plate was tough. I am a person who lends toward the compulsive and addictive. Why would one ever only eat half a donut? One wouldn't. (Unless one was late to get to the donuts a co-worker brought in and Dawn, who can eat whatever she wants, cut a donut in half and now that's the only one left. Nice going, Dawn. That was made up, but I hope you see what I was going for there.)

Eating sugar for me has always been tricky, so I might be able to leave half a piece of cake on my plate, but rest assured, I will be hiding under the dining room table, my fingers sticky as I finish off the nutty bar I just remembered is at the back of the pantry.

Lysa Terkeurst wrote a book entitled, "Made to Crave: God, not Food." She's anti-sugar. As someone who simultaneously loathes what sugar does for her body and loves what it does for her brain, I rebelled. Nope, I can't give it all up. Nope, just no. But she writes in a way that resonates with me and parallels what Ms. Shamblin had posited way back when. Ultimately, Ms. Terkeurst implores the reader to seek God, not food, when emotionally charged. This is a thing for me and so that resonates with me. But I don't want to have to actually pray and ask God for help, because you know, I've got this (as I lament only having one pair of jeans that kind of fit).

Over the past several years, another common thread I have heard is about how deadly sugar is. I mean, there are studies now that say sugar makes the brain react the same way cocaine does. This is not encouraging for someone who has battled with sugar her whole life. People are not usually casual cocaine users. It's just not how that works. When the dopamine is released in your brain, it's magical and electric and compelling.

So peanut butter.

When I was little, my mom worked for a short while and my brother and I were in daycare. I don't remember the name of the daycare or of the workers or any of my friends. I do, however, remember that for snacks before naptime, we would have toast with peanut butter and jelly. The peanut butter would melt a bit and it...was...heaven. Years later, PB&J has the same effect on me that it did back then. I feel comforted. I feel peaceful. I unwind.

Peanut butter, folks. Peanut butter.

And therein lies the rub. I don't think food should be responsible for how I'm feeling--good, bad or indifferent. Food was created to nourish my body. I have spent my whole life valuing food and valuing myself based on what foods I was eating.

The way I've started doing things (since Friday, so basically of course I'm an expert) is to only eat when I'm hungry (revolutionary, I know) and to stop eating when I'm only slightly full (yes, there are shades of full). If I am agitated or upset or feeling down or whatever, I'm supposed to talk about that. I am not supposed to use food to soothe or relax myself.

I am supposed to have come up with a plan for the rest of the week (but now I'm quite tired and my eyes are droopy). I will, after the kids have left for school, make a plan before I eat my first meal. I am supposed to account for everything that passes my lips (this is always a tricky one for me because I want to be perceived as a "good" girl, as doing things "right," when really it'st just an honest accounting of what I've put in my body.

It's kind of exhausting, but also liberating to not spend my whole day obsessed with what food will be next. Peanut butter is not on the approved list, but I also don't receive 50 lashes if I have some.

Stay tuned!! One thing I heard from the nutritionist Lysa Terkeurst featured on the accompanying videos to her book was that three weeks is a tough time. Most plans will have you losing weight, but its after three weeks that it gets tough and people plateau. My goal is to take one day at a time. I've committed to following this plan for two months. I promise to report if I accidentally gnaw off one my my feet.

An Open Letter to D47 Teachers

Following is (as much as is humanly possible) a transcript of the speech I gave tonight at the D47 board meeting. I am not sharing this to toot my own horn. I am sharing it because some of the people I mentioned in the speech were not present. I want to make sure they know how much they mean to my children and my family. 

Hi, my name is Sue Carbajal. I feel like it's important to mention that I am a product of public education. I feel very strongly about public education. We are one of the few countries in the world that invests so heavily in public education. I do not think that charter schools or other schools are the answer to our education problem. 

I am the daughter of two educators. My mom has been a bilingual first grade teacher in District U46 for over 25 years. I walked with her in picket lines. I stand behind all teachers. My dad currently teaches at Indian Prairie. He told me to look for a friendly face before I started talking. I did and now I'm afraid I'm going to burst into tears. 

I also need to say thank you to my husband Brian, who is home with all four kids right now. 

We moved to Crystal Lake almost 9 years ago when my oldest was six months old. We chose Crystal Lake over neighboring towns because we heard about how wonderful (and highly rated) the schools were and continue to be. 

My oldest, Jeremy, who is now 9, is at Indian Prairie in third grade. I anticipate he will be participating in the extended curriculum program next year. This is significant because he has had an IEP and a 1-on-1 aide since Kindergarten. His teachers, Shannon Martin, Kristin Johnson, Jen Beier and his 1-on-1 aide, Cheryl Brady (who, when he was tasked with writing an essay about a VIP, he wrote about Mrs. Brady), have all helped him cope with diagnoses of ASD, ADHD and SPD. I just recently checked his progress report and while all of his academics were great as usual, I was most moved by what his music teacher said--that he was greatly improved in that subject. 

Bekah, who is 7, has flourished and discovered a love of reading as a result of wonderful instruction from Shannon Martin, Jena Brogan and Julie Preshlock. It was because of Mrs Brogan that we discovered Bekah had a vision issue. Mrs. Brogan never doubted that Bekah was a reader. From the first time I was in her class, Mrs. Brogan indicated that all the kids were readers. In a different district or an overcrowded class, Bekah might have fallen through the cracks. Because she's in D47, she didn't. 

Doug, my younger son (now 5), started in Early Intervention. His occupational therapist let me know she wouldn't be attending his transition meeting [with the staff at Wehde]. When I pressed her about it, she told me there was no need for her to be there. She knew the staff at Wehde would adopt any recommendations she made. She also noted that she always attends transition meetings in neighboring districts. In those districts, she has to fight so that her patients get the services she feels are vital. 

When Doug got to Wehde in 2014, [at age 3], he was barely verbal. Because of the work of Kathy Davis, Jean Besserud and the various support staff--I will also mention Taylor Hansen because her name is in my mind--Doug has become quite a chatterbox and has met many of the other goals the staff has set for him. His favorite thing to say to me lately is, “I love you nommy. You're my best friend.”

My youngest, Brooklyn, is 8 months old. By the time she reaches Indian Prairie, I'm sure she will be a legend. [What I meant here was that all her siblings love her so much. Her picture has been shown to several classes and her grandpa works there. She will not be able to hide.]

My husband and I lived in our house for almost five years before one of our kids started school. We have struggled financially, but we have fought tooth and nail to stay in our home because of the schools and quality educators in District 47. We have never complained about the taxes we pay. We believe the best way we can spend our tax dollars is to fairly and generously compensate the educators that pour into our children and our community. 

Technology is a necessary component to help our children compete in our world, but without quality educators helping to operate the technology, the iPads and other technology are useless. 

Thank you for allowing me to address you this evening. 

(I love public school and I will defend it until I draw my last breath.)

Dancing with a Peaceful Heart

I am not sure where to start with this post. I've not written anything for a while, obviously. It is becoming increasingly tricky to stay awake long enough to sit at the PC. I have had a fair amount of coffee today (more than normal), so I'm fairly optimistic that I will be able to write without nodding off.

Last year at this time, I wasn't sleeping very well. Physically, though, I was doing okay. I was working with my personal trainer two times a week, eating well and running.

In October, I found out I was pregnant. This was of course happy news. Due to some complications, however, I had to put a full stop to my training and running. We were concerned for a while that the pregnancy might not go full-term.

Those worries were quelled with a very positive 20-week ultrasound. It showed that baby was developing well, that the bleed I'd had was resolved, and that everything was on track.

The problem was, that's about when all the illness started. I caught a respiratory bug that just wouldn't go away. I started sleeping on the recliner downstairs (that's a part of our sectional couch) to get some relief from the coughing. I found out that I had gestational diabetes. I was told that walking would be good exercise. Unfortunately, I've been experiencing a fair amount of pain in my pelvic floor. Even walking around the block made me feel winded and sore.

The kids, meanwhile, have been sick on and off since the start of the year. It has meant our attendance at church, small group and MOPS has been spotty. It has limited the amount of play dates, dinners and other social gatherings that we've been able to attend.

All of this, coupled with the weather, has taken me by the hand and led me to the edge of a deep depression. I have felt very isolated from people. I have grown resentful of people who seem to not have so much going on. My body has continued to deteriorate. I developed sleep apnea around February. I struggle to sleep at night because I wake up at regular intervals, either gasping for air or having to pee. This makes me tired during the day, which causes me to nap. Excessive napping causes me to not be sleepy at night, and so on and so forth.

As of today, everyone is back to healthy. We attended church for the second week in a row. We've not attended for this many weeks in a row (as a whole family) for about six months. We had dinner with our best friends on Thursday night (we hadn't been able to hang out with them since Christmas, again due to illness--ours and theirs). Things were starting to look up, honestly.

However, sometime during the last week, my body threw another curve ball at me. I know it's a common thing that happens with pregnant women. Of course I have to pee all the time, that's not a headline. A woman who is 33 weeks pregnant with her fourth child in 10 years is not going to have a lot of bladder control. I wasn't expecting, however, to become almost completely incontinent. Yep, you read that correctly. For reasons I can't quite understand, I have lost almost all ability to control my bladder at all. I broke down and bought special pads at Wal-Mart the other day.

So let's recap. In September, I ran a half-marathon and was doing plank rows with 15-pound weights. It's April now and I am swollen beyond recognition, my pelvic floor hurts almost all the time, I'm having Braxton-Hicks contractions very regularly and now I'm peeing my pants on the regular.

It's a lot to handle.

This morning, I had Brian drop me off at the church entrance. Even walking from the van to church (less than 10 steps) caused me excruciating pain. I was almost in tears as I waited for Brian and the kids to get in from the parking lot. One of my least favorite things is crying in public, but the pain I was feeling made it almost impossible to fight back tears.

Our pastor is doing a long-term sermon series on Romans. I have missed a bunch of the sermons due to illness. (I know they are available digitally, I just haven't been able to stay awake long enough to get caught up.) Today, he preached on Romans 5, verses 1-11. I will admit, I dozed off a couple of times (spilling coffee on my purse and myself for an added bonus). I cried silently into Brian's shoulder because of how much I was hurting. I excused myself to the washroom and cried in the bathroom stall for a minute or two. Really, though, I did hear what he had to say.

The part that was most impactful talked about suffering, and how suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character and character; hope. He talked about the fact that suffering is actually a gift.

I have had my fair share of non-physical suffering over the past few years. I have not always been able to see it as a gift. I can't say that physical suffering is easy to see from that perspective, either. Especially today, when just walking a few steps into church made me almost burst into tears, I couldn't see how suffering is a gift. For some reason, though, my pastor's words were oddly calming and soothing.

Mind you, I was still almost in tears, I had to waddle to the bathroom to make sure I didn't wet my pants and my hip started bothering me. But I didn't feel as resentful as I had felt before I got to church.

A few people tried to greet me and I mostly just rushed by. I feel kind of bad about that, but then again I didn't want to burst into tears in public. I just wanted to get out. Another friend saw me as I was losing control and gave me an impromptu hug. I sobbed a bit on her shoulder, then made for the exit before anyone else could see me cry.

Most of the time, I would be counting the minutes until I could settle back into my recliner. Today was a bit unique. I had received an email a few weeks ago letting me know that Bekah had a performance today with her dance company.

Over the past few months, she transitioned from doing one class a week to doing four classes a week (this comes out to about 4 hours of dance a week). She just performed at the Raue last month and did beautifully. When I read this email, I made special note of the date. I am not a details person, but since she's upped her commitment, I feel obligated to pay close attention to the details. I want to make sure she doesn't miss an opportunity to perform.

Almost every time I receive an e-mail from her dance school, I write back with questions. I clarify even when it seems like the information is crystal clear. I want to make sure my lack of focus is not a detriment to her.

Except for the email about today. For whatever reason, I put this performance on the calendar, told Bekah about it and had it all planned out. She was supposed to be at Harper College at 2:15. That gave us enough time after church to eat lunch, do her hair and make-up, check in on my friend's dog and get her to Harper. I dropped her off backstage and waddled, you guessed it, to the bathroom. I ran into a friend and we sat down together to wait for the start of the performance.

As we talked, I realized that the email stipulated they would be performing a dance routine from Phantom of the Opera. I assumed, wrongly, that they would also be performing another number, Carnival of the Animals. Since Bekah is newer to the dance company, she learned the choreography to Carnival but not Phantom.

So there I sat, exhausted and in pain, ticket already purchased, wondering how devastated my daughter was going to be that she couldn't perform. I wondered aloud why I hadn't received a separate e-mail stating her attendance wasn't mandatory because they would be performing material she didn't know.

To God's credit (not mine, mind you, because I deserve none), I had no impulse to head backstage and make a scene. I had no impulse to find out if Bekah was okay or not. I clutched onto my ticket as we entered the auditorium and had an overwhelming sense of peace. April and I continued to chat and I did cry a little as I recapped the morning (how much pain I had been experiencing). My shoulders slumped as I imagined how devastated Bekah was going to be at getting all dressed up and not being able to perform.

The show started and I dried my eyes. I love dancing, though I am not good at it. I appreciate the talent that goes into it and tried to just enjoy the different routines.

Before long, it was time for the Phantom performance, which is really a medley of routines and songs. To my surprise, there on stage, in costume, was my Bekah. Of course I burst into tears again. She did a great job and looked as beautiful as ever.

After her portion was done, she was able to sit in the audience with the rest of her level (age group). There was a beautiful dancer that performed in several pieces while in a wheelchair. It was wonderful to see the effort she made and the way she was integrated into the routines.

Once the show was over, I stood up to go retrieve Bekah (and promptly wet my pants, just for good measure). I did my best to let on that I hadn't just done that and was secretly glad that currently black maternity yoga pants are the only things that fit me. Black does hide a multitude of things.

Bekah's face was radiant when I picked her up. April complimented her (as did I). I guess there was a girl that was supposed to be there and didn't show. Bekah, in a very short amount of time, was able to learn the choreography and perform it admirably.

There was a reason God gave me peace. He knew how it would all turn out. He knew Bekah would be able to perform. He knew there would be a solution that meant she wouldn't be devastated. He used my pastor's words this morning to put my heart at ease before I even realized it needed to be at ease.

I am not sharing this because I feel proud of myself (the peeing my pants helps keep the proud feelings at bay). I am proud of my daughter, whose talent allowed her to participate. I am proud of my God, whose plan and peace transcended my own understanding.

He will make a way when there seems to be no way. I'm not much for singing in church (especially in the morning and especially when I've not had coffee yet), but these song lyrics exemplify what happened today. I am happy, not proud, that I was able to be quiet enough to let God do his thing.

A Picture of Procrastination

First, I've not posted anything in months. This is no good. I have made no progress on my novel. Take heart, loyal readers! School is about to begin and I have plans. I will be going to my parents' house to write, so that I don't get as distracted. 

Now, the picture. 

I, like many other parents, loathe the inordinate amount of toys in my home. It's not just the big toys, it's the pieces to the big toys. It's the Barbie clothes, the accessories to the Octolab, the fake food for the play kitchen (which, let's face it, is really only used when Doug crams himself into the oven). 

Like any good mother, I turn into a dragon after tripping over these things for the umpteenth time. I yell, curse (under my breath, on a good day), stomp around. I threaten to throw everything out. I call my husband at work and curse at him about all the flinging-flanging toys. 

So about a week ago, I had enough. To my credit, I didn't go full dragon. I focused my energy on the broken toys and I filled two garbage bags with broken toys, garbage and other detritus. 

But, like any good human, my efforts to de-clutter often hit a snag. The biggest snag for me is perfectionism. 

Enter these toys. The one on the left is a puzzle piece Jeremy smuggled out of the Algonquin library three or four years ago. Yes. I have held onto this puzzle piece. I have had all intentions of returning it to the library. I keep finding it and saying to myself, "next time I go to the Algonquin library..."

Yeah. Now it just taunts me. And even worse, I feel guilty for wanting to throw it away. So every time I come across it, I sigh with disappointment at myself and toss the darn thing back in the toy box!! For shame! 

The pig is another relic. I think Bekah snuck it into my diaper bag after an open gym at Elite Kids three years ago. Same exact story as the dinosaur. 

I have been meaning and meaning to return it, really. We went to an open gym last year (maybe, but probably a year and a half ago). I walked in and cursed under my breath for not having brought it. And yet...I just keep tossing it into the toy box. 

The struggle is real! I have wanted to write a dozen different times, but have been stymied by what people might say or think about what I write. I have been afraid of being judged for my opinions and insights. So I have handcuffed myself and thrown away the key. I keep hoping that I will have the desire to go sit in the office by myself and write. Because the desire hasn't hit, I don't write. I know better. I know how to have discipline and I am a bit ashamed of myself. 

Here's the thing. I won't be 100% better, that's not realistic. So I'm going to aim for 2% better. From there, it can only go up. 

And for the love, I am tossing those flinging-flanging toys. 

I'm back, bitches. 

Updates

I am sorry that it's been such a long time since my last post. Over our spring break, I contracted a nasty strain of strep throat that knocked me down for almost the whole week. This is going to be a short post. My alarm is going off in about 6 hours. I am running my first race since August (early September? I can't remember exactly). It's a 10K (6.2 miles). I've been stressing about it, even though I know I can run the distance, because I've not run that far this year yet.

All the same, I know I can run it. It's a tough course, I have been made aware of that. The blessing is, as was just pointed out to me, that since I've never run a 10K before, whatever my time is tomorrow will be my PR!!! Yippee! That, for some reason, makes it all better.

Meanwhile, I broke down and called the library this week. I hadn't heard about the poetry contest and wanted to see when the winners would be contacted. I found out that the winners won't find out whether they've won until the ceremony on the 20th of this month. So the hope remains.

I also had said I would post the finished product (after several revisions). A big thank-you goes out to Cristina Cabrera, a former classmate (now English teacher at Elgin High School), whose feedback was invaluable.

In other news, my novel is now up to 70+ pages. I discovered Google docs (yep, I'm so lame when it comes to technology) and realized I could put my novel, in a Google doc, onto my phone. My dad (who is several years older than me but much more tech-savvy) told me to also install Google drive, which I did. I have been working feverishly on it at odd intervals. I am gaining good momentum. I am doing my best to not edit as I write. I have a lot to resolve in the revisions, but ultimately you can't edit that which is unwritten. I have a very good idea of how the rest of the novel will progress. I will continue to post updates as I get closer to finishing.

Here are the final drafts (or, the drafts that were submitted to the contest) of the poems I wrote. Enjoy.

(I will apologize in advance for the italics. It's a weird quirk of Google lately to italicize everything.)

Growing Up

His daughter was difficult, firstborn. Teachers called her

sensitive, scheduled conferences.

She quivered about friendship,

boys, her feelings. Ill-fitting and scratchy, life pinched and clung to her.

Suicide almost stole her away.

He watched her,

helpless,

his heart straining.

Growing up was difficult

for her

to watch.

Awkward, wings deformed, she looped

away to college--new friends, new

opportunities.

Alcohol drenched her feathers, plummeted

his hopes

her potential.

His hair grayed; she fought the demon

Alcohol, almost lost

everything.

His heart dried up, hope leaking

through broken promises.

She clawed up

from the morass

from the destruction

she had heaped on herself.

Watching her, hope burrowed back

into his overstretched heart.

Potential peeked out, crocus petals

in soil thawed

after a long, bracing winter.

Years later, she was married, pregnant

With hope,

the first grandchild.

Skeins burst when overfilled, he pondered.

In the hospital room he rounded

the bed, laid eyes on the mewling

new

helpless

form next to her.

A thousand beams spilled out

onto cheeks wrinkled

from laughter

from worry.

His grandson is beautiful, his eyes declare,

everyone's best in a new skein,

supple and pliable.

His daughter in tears, he reflects that growing up

has agreed with her. Sensitive became an asset, wings healed.

Demons exorcised, opportunity

stretches

into the horizon

into the heart of his new grandson.

Words

Words sprout me gossamer wings,

erupt

me into the sky. Silvery and translucent over my back,

crisp air sweeps my breath.

My fingers brush

clouds, wispy and damp on my fingertips. Sun blazes, searing

through my closed eyelids.

Words plummet me to Earth,

anchor

me to the sand, chains

around my neck. Nails break off as I claw, choking

on fear, failure. I vomit loss

of opportunity, of love. Bile burns

tears from my eyes, agony washes

over my face. Mistakes reverberate,

ugly and hollow like rotted logs.

Words quiver my lover’s skin,

anticipation

waking desire.

My lips breeze his ear,

willowy promises reaching down his spine.

Words drip red from my chin;

I crouch over my victims’

spoils.

Tearing flesh, words work jagged teeth

across felled friends.

A forest lies in my wake, decay sweet I

lift my nose, spit derision, move

toward the horizon.

Old Words, New Poetry

I love to write, I know I've said it before. I am working (very slowly) on a novel. Meanwhile, I have been working on what I'd like to call the frazzled mom's novel-poems. I am entering a poetry contest at my local library. The due date is this coming Saturday. Surprisingly, I have been working on my poems for at least three weeks. That usually doesn't happen. I live on procrastination.

Last week was insane. I was way overscheduled and it led to poor sleep, extra stress and emotional hangovers. I knew that my reward for getting through last week was working more intensely on my poems.

My high school creative writing teacher is the voice in my head, even to this day. She was the one who taught me that writing is really about re-writing, about editing and word choice and the like. I am including two poems in this post. They are the two poems I'm submitting to the contest.

The first poem is on the third draft. I am hoping to get to the tenth draft before Saturday (when the poems are due). The second poem is going to be forged in a wine press of limited time. It's just the first draft.

My plan is to re-post the poems when I submit them. Then, for all the geeks out there, they can see the evolution of my work. (I'm positive I can count on my one hand the people that want to do that.)

In any case, Here they are.

Words
by Susan Carbajal

Words sprout me gossamer wings,

Erupt

Me into the sky. Silvery and translucent over my back,

Crisp air sweeps my breath.

My fingers brush

Clouds, wispy and damp on my fingertips. Sun blazes, searing

Through my closed eyelids.

Words plummet me to Earth,

Anchor

Me to the sand, chains

Around my neck. Nails break off as I claw, choking

On fear, failure. I vomit loss

Of opportunity, of love, bile

Burns the tears from my eyes, agony washes

Over my face. Mistakes reverberate

Between my ears, ugly and hollow like rotted logs.

Words quiver my lover’s skin,

Arrows

To his heart, anticipation waking desire.

My lips brush his ear, words breeze over,

Willowy promises reaching down his spine.

Words drip from my chin, red

As I crouch over my victims’

Spoils.

Tearing flesh, words work jagged teeth

Across felled friends.

A forest lies in my wake, decay sweet

I lift my nose, spit derision, move

Toward the horizon.

Words soothe, a calming balm

On wounds

Hidden

Under sarcasm, quick wit. My heart strains

As infection festers
away from prying eyes.

Silent, my heart slows it’s beat, crushed

under the weight

Of words.

The second poem I would like to dedicate to my dad. He is absolutely my #1 fan, my biggest cheerleader and the person voted most likely to cry when he reads this. I love you, daddy. You mean the world to me and I am grateful that you are so full of love for my babies.

Growing Up

by Susan Carbajal

She was a difficult child. Teachers called her

Sensitive, scheduled conferences.

Suicide almost took her life. He watched her, helpless,

His heart throbbing in pain where she had pierced it.

Growing up was difficult

For her.

To watch.

Awkward, she struggled to fly

Away to new friends, new

Opportunities.

She left for college, potential swelling

In front of her, fear awash in her wake.

His hair grayed as she fought the demon

Alcohol, almost lost

Everything.

His heart dried up, empty

From hope lost through small leaks.

Small slivers burrowed back in

As she clawed up

From the mire,

From the destruction

She had wielded over herself.

Years passed and his heart grew

Back, softened

By new potential, spring

After things lie dead and dormant.

Pregnant

With hope

With the first grandchild, 

he feared

That his heart had reached capacity.

In the hospital room he rounded

The bed, laid eyes on the mewling

New

Helpless

Form next to her.

A thousand beams, birthed

From the seeds of hope dropped

On fertile soil,

Tear at his heart, spill out

Onto cheeks wrinkled

From laughter

From worry.

His grandson is beautiful, his eyes declare,

The best of everyone contained in a new

Skein, supple and pliable.

His daughter in tears, he reflects that growing up

Has agreed with her. Sensitive has moved

From liability to asset.

Demons have been conquered, opportunity

Stretches

Into the horizon

Into the heart of his new grandson.

I feel like poetry is akin to sculptors working in clay, marble, etc. The artists say that the sculpture is there and it's just their job to chip away at all the parts that don't belong. I feel like it's the same way with poems. It's all there, I just have to make sure there aren't words getting in the way.

And now the worst part of writing and (eek!) putting it on the interwebs. I have to sit and wait, my heart pounding, to see what people think about it. (Because obviously I don't know what to think about it unless other people tell me. That's not entirely true but I am very suggestible.)

A Beautiful Gift in (God's) Perfect Time

I am seldom at a loss for words. It just doesn't happen. The gift God heaped on me was using words and so it's very rare that I find myself unable to form words. 

I am happy to report that this just happened earlier this evening. 

Let me lay the groundwork.

Anyone who reads my blog regularly knows that this winter just knocked it all out of me. Like everything--all my hope, all my sanity, all my health. All the meters were on zero at one point. My attendance at my Thursday activities (MOPS and Bible study) has been spotty at best. Really, I've made it to less than half of all of the meetings, either because I or my kids were sick.

One of the times I made it to Bible study, back in January, I was death-metal angry with God. I mean, I was lobbing profanity-laced prayers at him. Things had come to a head with Brian's job, our health was awful, my depression was deep and black and seemingly endless. 

I went to this particular Bible study fuming mad. I mean, if I had been a cartoon character, there would have been a black smoke cloud over my head. I was feeling very low. I had hoped that I could keep all of that to myself. I love to use words but I hesitate to use ugly words in front of people who hardly know me. I prefer to try and keep the illusion of my perfection alive for as long as possible. 

I had no intention of letting the dam break that day. I drew an extensive picture in my Bible study binder, I thought ugly things and I sat in the back of the room. 

But God had a plan.

Someone said something and it set me off. The person who said it has been through the wringer, too. She is not in the wringer now, but she has been there. She knows the pain I am feeling. The words she spoke are true for her now, after having been wrung out. She was not being condescending or Christian-y or anything like that. She was speaking God's truth.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back. It felt like the words she spoke were like water on hot coals. I steamed over and let angry words pour out of me. Trust me, they weren't the uncensored version. It was definitely the PG version of the very R-rated rant that had been building in my brain. 

The leader, another wonderful and authentic woman of Christ, asked to pray for me. I angrily said no, because I didn't want the prayers. I didn't want to be comforted, I didn't want to be patted on the back. I wanted to hit something. I wanted to break something. I was foot-stomping, tantrum-throwing mad at God.

That day, before I left (early, before class was even over), one of the women in the study gave me $50. I was so ashamed by that. One of the reasons I never like to share is because I don't want people to think I'm going around with my hand out. I don't like charity. I am grateful for it, oh so grateful, but I don't like it. I don't like being powerless. It feels overwhelming to have people be generous with me. I don't feel like I deserve it.

I wanted to give the money back. The problem was that there was something I had to pay for and it ended up costing (almost exactly) $50 more than I was expecting it to cost. I had to swallow my pride and put the gift down on the counter at the vet's office. 

Since that day in January, my anger and vitriol has mellowed. I am still frustrated by the situations swirling around us. As I told a friend, I am not Pollyanna about the situations, but I'm not so death metal about them anymore. I have been able to make it to MOPS and Bible study, though we still have been dealing with ill health. 

So a month ago, I went to Bible study. I have not been intentional or disciplined about my homework. I started off the year doing pretty well, but with everything that has happened (coupled with the normal activities of life), I have fallen off pretty steeply with it. A month ago, I did complete some of the homework. We were just being done with the stomach flu, so my half-hearted stab at it felt like more than enough effort. 

Two weeks ago, I was starting to battle a sinus/ear infection, so I didn't attend the study. Tomorrow is the next Bible study day. Accordingly, after painting with my girlfriends tonight, I sat down on the couch and opened my binder. 

There was an envelope in the left side of the binder, peeking out above the built-in pocket of the vinyl binder. It was plain and white and had my name written on it in block letters. It was thick and I assumed it was a letter of encouragement. I really didn't have a clue about it's contents. 

It wasn't until I saw the contents of the envelope that I lost the ability to speak. I pulled a stack of 10 $100 bills. I started bawling. Brian was sitting on the other end of our sectional and I looked at him and gestured toward the envelope. I was gobsmacked and could do nothing more than gesture and make random squeaking noises. He seemed a bit annoyed and so I waved him over to see what I was talking about. Then I really lost it, because when he took the money into his hands, it somehow became more real. 

Someone in my Bible study gave my family $1000. Even typing that makes me burst into tears. I don't feel like anything I could write could adequately express my gratitude. I don't feel like words could measure how tremendous a gift this is for my family. It gives us some margin where there hasn't been any. It means that tomorrow, when I go to the store, I can buy all the fresh produce we will need to make it through to next week, rather than just a few apples to fudge our way through. It means my savings will quadruple by the end of the month. I won't have to stop saving in order to afford paying for Bekah's dance class and recital costumes. I can have money set aside for emergencies. 

I am ashamed that I didn't discover the gift until tonight. It means that there was $1000 sitting in my garage, in my untouched binder, for a month. A solid month. I am ashamed that my family needs a gift like this. I am ashamed because I will never be able to thank the people who were so abundantly kind to me. 

But here's the thing. These gracious people, who gifted this to us, were I know following God's prompting. They want to be anonymous because they don't want to take credit for doing something God was calling them to do. To those people, I thank you for listening and responding to God's calling. I know you know how much this means to my family. I know you know how grateful I am for such a generous gift. Earlier today I counted the money I had left for groceries and wasn't sure how it would stretch to cover all we needed. 

It reminded me of a story in 1 Kings 17, where Elijah encounters a widow upon arriving in Zeraphath. He asks her for water and a slice of bread. She is honest with him--she is gathering sticks to go home and use the remaining oil and flour she has to make a meal for herself and her son...and then die. Elijah then says, (v. 13-14, NIV), "Elijah said to her, "Don't be afraid. Go home and do as you have said. But first make a small loaf of bread for me from what you have and bring it to me, and then make something for yourself and your sonFor this is what the LORD, the God of Israel, says: 'The jar of flour will not be used up and the jug of oil will not run dry until the day the LORD sends rain on the land.'"

Whenever I am feeling like there's not enough for groceries, I think about that story. I know that no matter what, there will always be enough. I don't think about that with wants, but I know that our needs will always, always be met. And they always have been. So reading this story is more than just reading words on a page. It's an affirmation for me that what God writes about in the Bible is really true. This is so huge for someone whose faith is low. This has done more than provide for my family financially--it has replenished our faith stores (which were dangerously low) and given us some rest.

Dear readers, please understand something important. God is not a vending machine or Santa Claus. He is not in the business of giving us what we want in the way that we want it. He is in the business of meeting our needs. He is sovereign and knows how best to do that. Frequently, it doesn't look the way we think it should. I have often joked, through our financial struggles, that what I want is a sack of cash on my front porch. God, in his infinite wisdom, knows that this is not the best way to answer our prayers. 

I want to make it so clear that God's provision has been on my family in so many myriad ways over the past seven or so years. It has sometimes been in this way, anonymous gifts of money. More often, though, it is smaller (though not less significant) gifts, of food or toys for the kids or clothes. The gifts have always come just when we needed them, when we were most desperate for a sign that God was still holding us in the palm of His hand.

It's been my hope, through all of this, that God would be given glory for any beautiful thing that comes out of these struggles. I consider all of my children gifts from God, but Doug especially because he was born a month after we had filed for bankruptcy. I don't think there was any better way for God to show us hope than with the birth of our beautiful, crazy boy. This latest gift, then, is all about God. It's not about the person who gifted it. I am not obligated to pay them back, to give an accounting of how I've spent each dime. As it is a gift from God, I am beholden to God about it. I don't have to seek these people out and gush about how wonderful they are; that's not the point of the gift. They don't want me to feel tied to them inexplicably. They don't want me to thank them--they want me to give thanks to God, which is upon whom I will heap the thanks.

Friends, please know that this doesn't solve all our problems. I am not seeing this as the final provision or the resolution of this season of our life. Rather, I see it as further affirmation that God has a plan for our lives. His hand of provision is ever-present, tangible and real. It's not empty words in an old book--it is alive and well, living in the hearts of the people around me who, like me, are Christ-followers in a broken world.

A month ago, things were about the same but our pockets were a bit more padded. This gift would have been just as remarkable back then, but receiving it tonight made it so much easier to see that the gift came straight from God. This doesn't completely assuage my guilt about not doing my bible study homework, but obviously God knew my heart well enough to know that I'd get the gift at the right time.

Kevin Hart was on Conan a while back. He was speaking about his mother, who has supported him wholly in his dream to become a comedian. She told him she would pay for his rent for the first year he was in L.A. Before he left her house, she gave him a Bible. Every month, he would call her and ask her where the rent check was. She would ask if he had been reading his Bible. "Yes," he would say, "but mom, I need that rent check." She just kept telling him to read his Bible. He was so frustrated and fell behind in paying his rent. After a few months of this, he was very close to being evicted. He finally sat down and opened the Bible, only to find that his mom had tucked the rent checks into different pages of the Bible. 

This story takes on such new meaning to me. I have been pleading with God lately, mostly that he would provide the right job and the right conditions for Brian. All along, the answer has always been to study His word more. I am hopeful that I am able to finish strong with this study. I feel a renewed sense of energy and faith in God. I don't know any more of His plan than I did 4 hours ago, when I found the gift. I do, however, have affirmation that God knows the plan and has my family firmly gripped in his powerful hands. 

Please continue to pray for Brian's job search. I will remain hopeful that the right job is out there. God's timing is always perfect, always. He is so good to us.