Grieving on a Sunshiny Day

No matter how many pills I swallowed or how much coffee I drank, a familiar darkness settled in last week for about three days. And I didn't like it. 

Because even though I've processed grief off and on for years now, when the feeling hits, I tend to fear it will never go away.

For some people it doesn't. 

Thankfully, I can honestly say that I'm back in my skin, feeling like me, smiling at times even before I partake of morning coffee. 

But as I mentioned last week, a collision of events created an atmosphere ripe for sadness. So when Nathan moved out and I drove home to my empty nest once more, an aching melancholy engulfed me like a powerful summer storm. 

I felt so odd, and a tad bit panicky, that I didn't make it to church on Sunday. Looking back, I'm fairly certain the change in medicine exacerbated my need to grieve. Regardless, the momentary darkness reminded me of how real those dark days can be. 

Just a week ago, I listened as a young women grappled with how to face the upcoming one year anniversary of her mother's death. Since we were celebrating her eighteenth birthday, I spoke from the sunny side, reminding her that a year ago, she couldn't imagine making it one day without her mom. 

"While the day will be hard," I encouraged,"You'll get through it, just like you've survived  every day this year."

But then I faced a few days of grief and remembered all the anniversaries of my first husband's death that required a distinct tunneling through. As the day would approach, I felt burrowed underground, away from normal life. I breathed the same air and lived the same way as the week before, yet everything felt different. I was never alone in the tunnel, just like I wasn't this week. And in time the tunnels got shorter and eventually faded in intensity.

A good cry helps. But I didn't feel the need to shed a tear last weekend until Don came home from church and asked if he should be worried about me. Something about his concern sparked a flow. And I sobbed. 

A piano student shed tears today when she told me her dog died last week. Another student talked about grieving a recent move. Tomorrow, my friend will live through the first anniversary of her mother's death and most certainly wipe unwanted, painful tears.

Grief. It's real. All encompassing. A weighty sadness that takes time to heal. Even on sunshiny days.

And that's OK. 

It's simply OK.

Because in time, it fades and does a purifying work that enhances joy. How? I don't really know. But it can. It does. It makes the soul grow.

So grieve for a day, a few days, maybe even a season. Then let the balloons go and live your God given life.

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BB Guns, Quiet Times, and Grown-Up Boys

My legs swung free as I sat on our kitchen table, gazing at the forest of green outside our large picture window. A slight headache dulled my attempt to connect with God but lingering sips of coffee worked to lift the haze. 

Don called from our bedroom just off the kitchen, "If you want to me to teach you how to use the BB gun, you can shoot squirrels while I'm gone." 

"Gee, thanks," I replied with little enthusiasm.

While he bought me a hand gun for Valentine's Day—just in case—it may not surprise you that I have no intention of shooting the squirrels in our back yard unless the sky falls and necessity reigns. The mere thought further disrupted my attempt at morning peace.  

Guns and quiet times just don't gel in my tender soul.

That said, I've not felt like myself for over a week now. And it's my own doing. Excited about the difference I felt after taking Plexus products, I decided to wean off the SNRI I've taken for several years. Touted as an anti-anxiety medicine, it worked to control nerve pain. When vitamins and supplements controlled my pain, I felt certain I could live with one less medicine.

I did well at first. But then my left eye drifted out more, exacerbating my double vision after a day of writing. And after four weeks without Effexor, my right leg felt unhinged. Deep pain I'd never felt before woke me from hip to ankle at night and forced me to ask Don to bring up the walker one morning. 

A few days later, I succumbed to rationale. After swallowing the pills for about a week now, my leg and eyes work well again and I'm operating more like me. 

But I've felt strangely vulnerable.   

Without that little pill, my nerves don't communicate well, my right leg drags behind, the joints refuse to collaborate, and instability reigns.

I'm dependent. 

Totally dependent.

By now you know another shooting took place last night. In a movie theater no less. Video clips proved Planned Parenthood harvests baby parts for sale. Today I read about a group of women who were not only raped in a Vietnamese water park but were later blamed for their choice due to their bathing suit attire. 

Guns and quiet times don’t go together well, making peace hard to come by in a brash, violent prone world.

Sometimes I wonder if our society is wracked with anxiety because we know too much. Atrocities from across the globe run across our TV and lap top screens with a mere push of a button. Some days I can file it away. Others, the heaviness breaks my heart into pieces and I feel strangely vulnerable. Dependent even.

Since the barrage of horrific news isn’t going away any time soon, I not only need to swallow my morning medicines, I need to embrace time away from the fray, where His word remains clear, and His truth unaltered.   

Especially when I don't feel like myself. 

At the height of my oddness this week when dissatisfaction reigned, I read a post by John Eldridge from the book Desire:

"To wait is to learn the spiritual grace of detachment, the freedom of desire. Not the absence of desire, but desire at rest. St. John of the Cross lamented that 'the desires weary and fatigue the soul, for they are like restless and discontented children, who are ever demanding this or that from their mother, and are never contented.' Detachment is coming to the place where those demanding children are at peace. As King David said, 'I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me'" (Psalm 131: 2). 

The day I learned I was pregnant with Nathan, I wrote a song using the words from that Psalm. Tomorrow he moves into a place of his own with a full time job to pay the bills. Maybe that's why I'm off kilter. 

I like him.

I enjoy him.

And he's off to his own apartment, ready to embrace the world. 

I've gone through this transition before. I'll be fine. But today, I'll play that song one more time because during change, physical trial, and a constant barrage of bad news, my prayer remains:

"Let my heart not be proud. Let my eyes not be vain. Let my mind be on you and not on things that I could gain. Let me still my soul within you, like a child with its mother. Let me still my soul within you and cling to no other. For you are my hope, Lord. Both now and forever more."

 

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The Colorful Ties and the Genomes Inside

It happened. Finally. Hours after morning coffee, I signed several papers and a nurse drew blood. Within three months, I'll receive the results of my genome sequencing.

It's exciting and scary.

Since the science is new, there's a chance the Emory Genetics Lab technicians will study my genes and still be unable to determine an accurate source of my physical oddness. On the other hand, clarity would be very beneficial for me, my boys, and perhaps even others in my family. For instance, if a mitochondrial defect is found in the actual mitochondria of the cell (instead of the cell nucleus) then my boys won't pass this disease onto their children.   

Regardless, something just isn't normal in my body, yet doctors continue to argue about the diagnostic criteria for mitochondrial disease. So even though I served as the face for adult onset mito disease on a web site years ago, my neurologist now questions the hundred page muscle biopsy report. 

It's exhausting.

Products by Reliv and Plexus increased my energy levels this year, but I still required wheelchair assistance to make it through our weekend trip to a family reunion just outside of Philly. It didn't help that we ate on the third floor of beautiful restaurant, called Ariano, the first night. But the atmosphere, company, and food made the climb worthwhile.

Perched high in the loft, I visited with family I hadn't seen in over ten years. We don't talk on the phone, and only recently became FB friends. But visiting with them felt strangely comforting.

They are a part of me, like my DNA. They carry a similar genetic coding and have been in my life, whether near or far, since day one. Over the span of at least thirty years, we made a host of memories, visiting my grandparents in this house, high on hill, only a quarter mile from Ridley Creek State Park.

After Sunday lunch in their retirement home ten minutes away, we drove to the park where cousins, aunts, and uncles strolled the familiar path. Much to my dismay, my 71 year old mom had to push me in a wheelchair.

Cousin Christy, Mom, Me, Aunt Barb

To my right, Aunt Becky pushed Grandma in her own wheelchair while everyone else kept pace.

The Gang!

We passed the familiar waterfall.

And took in the lush green.

Some jumped with joy.

Christy and Michelle

Others relished solitude.

Steven

And Nora made new friends.

Katrina and Nora!

Nathan and Nora!

We played some crazy games of UNO and I learned that my family didn't invent the House Rules, although we take great pride in the chaos they bring to the game.

Christy, Karen, Tom, Jennifer, Barb

Grandma and Jennifer

Cut from the same cloth, our differences faded. Familiar voices, crazy stories, and well worn paths allowed me to touch base with a part of who I am that I tend to ignore. And I liked it. 


Grandma fell again the day after we left and Grandpa may not even remember we came. But gathering to see them once more offered a gentle reminder:

The ties that bind really matter. Just like learning about my genetic make up.

After hugging everyone goodbye, I waited at an elevator. When the doors opened, a startled security guard saw at my red walker and blurted, "Wheelchair? No... walker."

Aware of his concern I offered, "Don't worry. It's mine. I have a neuro-muscular illness."

"Oh," he continued, "You're too young for a walker. For a minute there I thought you'd stolen it."

When the (retirement center) elevator doors shut me inside alone, I heartily laughed out loud. Adventures follow me and my red walker, but this was a new one.

A granny walker thief I am not.

But if I have a life of walker confusion ahead, I sure do hope these labs test tell us why. It will be nice if the answers make travel to next years reunion a little easier. But perhaps the answers will just settle something in me. 

Either way, it's time; time to reconnect with family and dig deep into my DNA.  

And for my family... a perfect reunion ending song.

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photo credit: All reunion photos via Nathan Schreer

(c) 2015

4

Does It Really All Come Down to Love?

While Nathan shucked corn and Don sliced a bag of okra at the kitchen table, I emptied coffee cups from the dishwasher. The night before I'd fed my friend, Bonnie, since her arms don’t work due to ALS.  As I lifted spoonfuls of fried okra and fresh creamed corn into her mouth, the southern fare got my attention. On the way home, I stopped by Kroger’s and bought necessary ingredients to surprise my farm-boy husband with a good old southern meal on July 4^th.

           

As I defrosted chicken and prepared corn meal for frying, conversation grew serious. The recent SCOTUS ruling still dominated thoughts and Nathan had a blog he wanted me to read. The writer spoke the fine line between truth and love as many have in recent postings. While he’d hoped to keep a firestorm of response from resulting due his expressed belief that loving homosexuals would make more of difference than fighting them in court, comments grew fierce.

Nathan sliced chicken. Don carved corn from the cobs. And our intense exchange continued.

“Does it really all just come down to love?” I asked, “Is it really that simple?”

“I don’t know,” Nathan replied.

It seems a bit simplistic. Very simplistic.  But if we really lived and loved like Jesus, the world would look a whole lot different - a veritable no-brainer.

But since we talk about love, fly rainbows high, and create movies that beckon us to believe in happy ever after, what’s gone wrong? There’s a lot of talk about love yet little demonstration. When the worst happens and darkness descends, how many of us stand undaunted, assured, and perhaps even at peace?  

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed. His compassions never fail. They are new every morning” (Lamentations 3: 22-23).

How about in the grocery line? At the gas station? In Fed Ex when they won’t explain why they want to charge you almost double what their 1-800 number service quoted?

That’s when I lost it last week.

I needed to mail Sam asthma medicine but forgot the holiday weekend approached. When overnight delivery became the only option, the $25 quote from their one eight-hundred number didn’t seem such a bad investment to keep him breathing. When I stood at the counter with package in hand, however, the clerk asked for $39 and couldn’t or wouldn’t explain the difference.  So I called the 1-800 number again, received the same quote, hurried to a store employee who quickly cut me off. My voice rose in intensity as I searched for an answer, which is when she looked at me sternly and ordered, "Calm down, Mam."

I didn’t calm down. I started to shake. Baffled by not getting an answer, yet being called down, I left the store. In a huff.

But oh I wish I could have remained calm.

Jesus did.

“He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearer is silent so he did not open his mouth” (Isaiah 53: 7).

Knowing I could send the package for $25 somewhere in Atlanta, I got in my car and called the 1-800 FedEx number again. The 1-800 man encouraged me to go back into the store. With him on the phone, things went very smoothly indoors and the package arrived safe.

But those are the moments I'm talking about. The ones where your peace is rattled, your integrity questioned, and you feel undone by someone's perception of you. 

Can we speak love even then? Or at least not lose control?

"As a sheep before her shearer is silent so he did not open his mouth."

Sometimes living a life of love requires action. Sometimes it simply requires staying silent and laying down defenses. 

Man, I've got some work to do.

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Celebrating Freedom: Getting Down, Honest, and Real

A fresh cup of Joe was awakening me Sunday morning when I saw a post on my FB feed, "The experience of the last few days has led to the conclusion that I need to exit the church for a while." 

Of all the commentaries I've read in the news, on blogs, and even throughout my FB feed, that conclusion saddened me most.

I get it. I get why the writer wants to throw the towel in. I really do. The church is full of flawed, sinful people.

Before I washed and moussed my hair for church, however, I engaged in a challenging FB discussion. Everyone stood their ground, but I surprised myself by sharing part of a story I've long held inside. 

It still makes me nervous. But since I've never written what really happened the night an angelic presence visited my room, it's time.

Six months before my first husband, Jason, died, we faced several challenges. He lost his balance on a family trip and tumbled down a mountainous ravine. The scary fall startled us both. With no air conditioning in our car, the force of the wind on our drive home caused a corneal abrasion that turned into a goopy mess when his eye lid stopped closing. 

Soon after arriving home, Sammy woke from a nap in tears, having scratched his cornea on his fuzzy blanket. While he proudly wore an eye patch like his dad, I discovered a growth on the back of Nathan's neck. A surgeon removed the fatty cyst weeks later and the growth was confirmed benign. But long hospital corridors tired us both.

Within a week, we dressed for a wedding rehearsal dinner but ended up changing a flat tire, on the side of a major highway, in the rain, instead. When the spare went flat, we called AAA.  The next morning, when our car engine locked up a few miles away, we realized the toe truck driver had punctured its oil filter, leaving necessary oil in a puddle on the driveway. The engine recovered after a weekend of rest. But not me.

Jason's dad, Nathan, and Sam 
pouring kitty litter on the nasty spill.

Within a week or two I dreamed that a friend from high school came to town. I hadn't seen her in years. So when I learned my dream turned to reality I was happy to visit with her. 

Our friendship had gone through a major challenge years before after she "had an experience" with a female and asked if I thought it was OK. I cared deeply for my friend, especially since she'd lost her mom in a tragic accident, but couldn't altar my belief system to answer in the affirmative. I tried my best to communicate that I didn't want our friendship to end but over time my refusal to reverse my understanding of scripture created a Grand Canyon divide. 

So I was pleasantly surprised when we enjoyed an afternoon together in our home. When she left, however, I found her glasses and agreed to drive them to where she was staying. Thankfully, at the last minute, Nathan asked to go with me.

As I pulled in the driveway, my friend sat half way up a long staircase (that led to the front door) with a CD player at her side. When I stepped out of my car, a Neil Diamond love song began to play. It felt odd. And the awkwardness only grew when Nathan opened his door, followed me around the car, and my friend shut off the music when he came into view.

My fledgling reserves shut down on my drive home. I wasn't sure what had just happened but it stirred a deep sadness that sent me spiraling.

It wasn't just the one incident. The unrelenting series caused an internal melt down that left me grappling with how to go on. My husband was losing neurological skills day by day and it was all I could do to stay above his daily decline.

So as I lay in bed in complete darkness , I cried out to God and He answered in a most dramatic way. A light shone in our bedroom; a floor to ceiling, intensely bright, half circle light appeared from our boys room across the hall. I tried to explain it away, even fought momentary fear. But when Jason and I compared notes the next morning we knew there was only one explanation to what we had both seen.

A divine presence had showed up to remind us one more time that we were not alone.

I want to be clear that I'm not sharing this to shame or damn homosexuals. But since Christians are being labeled  "haters" because our understanding of scripture contrasts with popular opinion, I want to honor my story in its entirety. I've written about the angelic visit before, but have left out the part about my friend. 

Why? Because I didn't want to stir contempt. But the truth is, I deeply grieved the lost friendship. It rocked my world. I never intended to cause hurt feelings or force a cataclysmic divide. But an irreconcilable chasm formed regardless.

Not all Christians hate. And not all homosexuals refuse to engage friends who don't agree. Labeling either group one way or the other does a major disservice to both.

Not long after the angelic light appeared, I marched around our back yard seven times. My boys followed like armor bearers as I prayed bold prayers, asking for breakthrough. When I finished and walked into my home, the chorus of this song flowed completely from beginning to end. It took me years to finish and record it. But the words set in song propelled me forward and gave me the strength to stay the course. 

God didn't promise the hard stuff would go away but He assured me His love was enough to get me through every minute of every day.

So as we celebrate freedom this weekend, may our hearts be overwhelmed by the true freedom that is only ours in Christ. And may we love with the love He died for us to know.




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