Enduring Love

Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise;
give thanks to him and praise his name. For the LORD is good and his love
endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations. Psalm 100:
4-5

My friend, Pam, posted that quote on her facebook page on Thanksgiving morning. I tend to make fun of her daily posts, which usually consist of "I cleaned my house today" or "Why do I get behind all of the idiots at Walmart?" I didn't have a witty, smart-ass comment to this one.

Truthfully, this one kind of caught me off guard. Probably for a couple of reasons.

First, the familiarity of the posted verse reminded me that my walk towards balance and simplicity did not begin at Renfrew Treatment Center two years ago, but actually started decades ago in a church on the corner of 8th and Main Streets in Covington, KY. My intellect and questions were honored and encouraged there, by a small group of people who were way ahead of their time. (They also managed to stick a few key verses into my brain that had nothing to do with sin and hell, but everything about love and compassion.)

The second reason I was taken aback is that I find that most people quote verses that are self-serving or a poor attempt to explain the crap away that happens in our lives. But not this one. It simply states a fact.

In the eloquence of the poem lies the single truth that is so hard for me to wrap my mind around: love endures. It isn't earned or deserved. It doesn't get killed in car wrecks or lost in a move. Love endures.

Just like Levi's, good leather boots or the Veleveteen Rabbit, the Spirit's love gets more comfortable, more
form fitting, the more you wear it, use it, give it away.

After awhile, after all the enduring, the love isn't just an accessory to who you are, it becomes you. So much so, that "nothing can separate us from the love of God." Love endures. . . For that, I will always be thankful.

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A Letter to Will

Dear Will,

This past Saturday I watched as you ran in your final Cross Country race, and as I watched I couldn't help but wonder where all the years had gone.



It seems like yesterday I was watching you run the mile in a yellow t-shirt, baggy shorts and basketball shoes on the playground at Crestwood elementary.



Then you moved into middle school where you ran 3K's in the early morning hours then we stopped at McDonald's for breakfast as we drove home together. You talked all the way home; I guess there wasn't any competition from your brother and sister.



In high school, you ran 5K's and rode the bus back with the team. (I missed our McDonald's breakfasts.) The Hillbilly Run is still my favorite because they sold cool t-shirts and you always ran a PR there. The Dragon Invitationals were always eventful, too. My least favorite was probably when we had it by the Baptist church and we spent Friday afternoon shoveling piles of cow sh-- off the course. Of course, the record rain and 2 feet of mud that you made your way through as a Senior will always be memorable.



In college, you moved to 8K's. I think Evansville may have been my favorite meet -- I really liked the lake there. (I must say, however, that college races were lame when it came to t-shirts and concessions.) And then all of a sudden, I was standing at Tom Sawyer Park on Saturday as you ran a 10K, and just like that, it was over.



Honestly, Will, watching you run has been one of my greatest pleasures in being your mom. The pride that swells within me at each and every race has never been surpassed by a theater performance or a band competition. This past Saturday I finally understood why.



In all the races that you have started and finished, you never once approached the starting line thinking you would win--that you would get a huge trophy, a standing ovation or a written review in the next day's newspaper.

You did approach the line knowing that you would give your best, that you would finish the race. (I won't bore you with the details, but that profound act is actually biblical. Religious people devote their lives to learning how to give their best and finish the race.)



By continuing to put one foot in front of the other -- even when your shoe was untied (or tied too tightly thanks to Bo), or when you fell in the creek or your shoes didn't fit correctly, or the ground was too hard or muddy for spikes, even when you were lapped by faster runners, even when your blister bled through to the outside of your shoe (how cool is that?), even when it must have felt like things were falling apart--you took the next step, lengthened your stride and kept your eyes up. When you finished, you shook the hand of the runners near you and congratulated them on a race well run. Every time, Will. You did this every time.



Maybe after 13 years of you running I've finally learned the lesson you began teaching me when you were a 4th grader. In all that I do, whether as a teacher, a friend, a daughter, or most importantly, as your mother, I will strive to give it my best and I will most certainly finish the race.



I love you, Will. And not for being good, not for staying out of trouble, not for being the peacemaker in our family. I love you for the heart of a champion that beats inside that weird chest of yours. I love you because you show up and finish. I love you because you are mine.



Mom

Off Balance

For the past couple of nights, I've had trouble sleeping. . . I've actually slept, I suppose, just intense, crazy dreams.

I've also read Unbearable Lightness, a book about recovery from anorexia. I thought it was great, but I can't seem to shake it.

Then, I saw a woman when I was getting my haircut last week who was extremely thin and enjoying it. Honestly, I was a little jealous.

Lastly, my nutritionist weighed me and I had actually gained five pounds in the last few months.

I didn't realize this was actually getting to me until I noticed my dog being very restless and unable to relax. Then I realized I was doing the same thing.

Sometimes recovery feels like shit. When you're at the bottom of the well, all you have to do is get out of bed and the world claps for you. When you're doing okay the bar is so much higher and there's so much more to lose. Today is one of the those scary days, but I have to remind myself those scary days used to be my whole life. Tomorrow will bring balance.'

Election Day

This past Tuesday was Election Day. The results were less than pleasing for me when you look at the official win/loss board. The Republicans won the Senate seat for Kentucky, and Democrats lost control of the House. It was really no surprise though.



Since I turned 18 -- nearly 30 years ago (ouch!) -- I have voted in every election, every primary, general and presidential. I went to the polls informed, for several years with a child or two in tow. I even went to vote when I was on bedrest because of the pregnancy with the twins. The officials that year let me go to the front of the line.



I have always gone to the polls, imagining that I was casting my vote for all of the women in my past who were denied that right. I went with purpose and pride.



That changed two years ago.



Election Day 2008 proved to be historical in electing our nation's first black president. It also proved to be the day I hit the bottom that I had been spiraling towards for months.



By the time the final votes had been counted, I found myself at Ten Broeck Psychiatric Hospital, but not before I cast my vote so impaired from prescription pills and starvation that I took out a stop sign in the parking lot at the voting poll. (I'm just hoping I actually voted for Obama, but I couldn't swear to it.)



Anyway, I haven't voted since that day. Feelings of shame, unworthiness and paralyzing dread kept me away. Just thinking about going caused me to feel my heart beat in my ears. I guess I thought of myself as a convicted felon, that I had given up my right to voice an opinion.



This year on election day I cleaned and vacuumed my car out. I took Margaret, Laura's mother, to lunch; I hadn't seen her since I left Jeff. I walked Grace and did some laundry. I talked with my kids and my mom on the phone. I was just getting ready for an afternoon nap when Cathy called. She was predicting the outcome of the election, concerned that Rand Paul would be our next senator. I listened quietly when it dawned on her.



"You haven't voted, have you?" After a couple of seconds of silence, she said quite simply, "Go vote. It's time."



I grabbed my keys and made the short drive to the neighborhood church where I stood in line to vote. I stood there chatting with the old man who was volunteering. I stood there with clear eyes and a steady hand as I filled out my ballot. And while it wasn't an historical election, in the national sense, for me. . . my ticket won before the votes were even counted.