God Became Flesh

Three years ago I was in a residential treatment center for women with eating disorders. I had been there 16 days and was just starting to believe that I truly had a mental illness and admitting that my thinking and perception were skewed when it came to matters of weight and body image.


I guess part of me thought once I “owned it” then I would be cured and that episode would be finished, and I would move on to other things.

Not.

Over the last three years, I’ve come to understand that I didn’t “get” anorexia and it won’t ever be “finished.” Thankfully, these days the illness does not interfere with the fullness of my life and actually with all of the “work” my life is possibly saner than your average person. Or would that be less crazy? (In re-reading this paragraph, all of the quotation marks around words are enough to probably have me committed.)

Is there a word for someone who is beyond sane? Or do you just simply circle back around and become crazy again. Or maybe that’s what being radical is. . . beyond sane. I suppose that actually is one of those unanswerable questions like the whole tree falling in the forest and who made God. . . if you actually know you’re crazy, are you?

But I digress.

Even now, though, on rare occasion, the eating disorder whispers to me, in a voice that so annoyingly sounds like my ex. It tries to convince me that I’m taking up too much space, that my presence is more than it should be, that my sanity is really just an excuse for thinking a little too highly of myself.

Luckily, I now know that the voice is disordered and even though I hear it I can choose to ignore it. Most of the time, my diligence in walking, sleeping, eating, talking and taking Prozac make that it an easy and obvious choice. Most of the time. . .

Unfortunately, the last two Sundays I’ve found myself choosing to listen to it. Last week, I couldn’t bring myself to attend my church’s small group Christmas Party. I convinced myself that the food would be too much, that I would cause the house to be too crowded. This Sunday I missed the actual class but sanity won out in time to get to worship.

I’m so glad it did.

I came through the front doors so I wouldn’t encounter the crowds that congregate in the hallways between Sunday School and Church. As I entered, a friend greeted me silently with a warm hug. Then a friend I met this summer in a Wednesday evening program, called my name. She had read a couple of my blog entries and thanked me for sharing them with the church. She said she was moved to tears.

As other folks started taking their places, a woman from my Sunday School class touched my arm, told me that she had missed me that morning, wished me a Merry Christmas.

A man from my class passed by after that, it was actually his and his partner’s Christmas party that I had skipped the week before. He quipped with a grin, “Where the hell were you?” When I doubted the importance of my being there, again, he said, “No. Seriously. Everybody was saying ‘Where the hell is she?’”

As the Prelude began, the music minister walked by, placed her hand on my back and whispered in my ear. “Thank you for sharing your blog post. You are a gifted writer.” Turns out her whisper spoke louder than Eds.

Even as I left the church, the pastor reached past my outstretched hand in order to hug me and say “What a writer!”

I’m thankful that God became flesh for me this morning in the form of Walter and Ginger and Jerry and Kathy B. and Kathy C. and Joe. When the rest of my sanity tools don’t seem to be doing the trick, love is always enough to put me back on the road.

Of course, it has to be the real stuff, love that is real enough to say “Hey, where the hell were you? “

Songs about Christmas

My mom always says that it isn’t Christmas until she sees a 3-foot tall shepherd with a towel on his head and light-up tennis shoes on his feet. Since the Christmas Spirit so far has been elusive to me, I thought I’d see if she knew what she was talking about and go to the Children’s Christmas Worship service at Highland Church. I left the service realizing that, as usual, my mother was right.


Through a make-believe radio station, WJOY, where “the best songs are songs about Christmas,” the children of Highland told the sweet story of the birth of Jesus.

The handbells rang clearly and the children sang sweetly. It was just as it should be.

Mary and Joseph sang of their difficult experiences.

A whole flock of shepherds, complete with staffs and stuffed lambs, marched (unrehearsed, I would imagine) their way to the stable. I’m not sure the original shepherds actually marched, but when you’re in kindergarten and you’re going to see the Baby Jesus, marching seems very appropriate, plus it makes a really cool sound on the chancel.

The cattle moo-ed and the sheep baa-ed and the pastor, I mean the donkey, complained that he didn’t get the recognition he deserved. After all, he preached every Sunday, I mean he had carried Mary on his back.

All of it reminded me that just regular people (and animals) came together on that first Christmas, and just regular people have been retelling the same story for hundreds and hundreds of years, and the bizarre part is that it never gets old. I mean you never get tired of hearing it. At least I don’t.

At the beginning of the service, our Music Minister stated a disclaimer that reminded us that our worship leaders on this evening were children, and children are interested in the process not the product. In other words, there might be a missed note or a forgotten word or a shepherd with a costume malfunction.

Sounded good to me. . . imperfection would make the story even more believable. Actually, I think the whole idea of process might be what God had in mind when he sent Jesus in the first place. I doubt if Mary or Joseph, or even the shepherds, were actually ready for Jesus’ birth but when the call came they each did what was asked of them.

So this Christmas, my prayer is that I would be willing to do the same. God does not ask me to get ready to serve, he simply asks me to serve. I’m thankful to celebrate the birth of a Christ who cares very little for the product but pours out blessings on the process of our lives.

So that’s my lesson for the season, a lesson that only some three foot tall, marching shepherds could teach.

I’m looking forward to the rest of the season, continuing with the process of walking in God’s love, making sure I tune into WJOY, where the best songs are songs about Christmas.

Lonesome

I've always been slightly annoyed with people who complain of being lonely. It always sounded sort of needy and lame. After all, God is always with us and if we're cool being inside our own skin, we should be content, right?

 I think for most of my adult life I've tried to convince myself that I'm not a touchy, feely person, that I'm fine inside my own head, in some sort of effort to protect myself from the possibility of hurt or rejection.

But, for some reason, I've found myself feeling a bit lonesome the last couple of weeks. I'm sure it has something to do with the holidays, which is another word for hell for anyone who is old enough to have been hurt even a little.  The shorter days don't help either. I've heard the whisper of ED in my ear a few times as well, but I'm not convinced he brought the loneliness with him.

I'm starting to think the feeling might just be coming from the healthy part of me. In fact, maybe it's the honest part of me actually feeling. I am thirty plus pounds heavier than I was 3 years ago and I'm also about 3 X vulnerable, which actually translates into "living life about 3 X more." Of course, I wish that recovery brought only the good parts of life but that just isn't how it works.

So, I'll just sit with the feeling for awhile, knowing that I'll be fine. I'll snuggle in with Grace, choosing not to define myself as someone lame or needy, but a human being who needs something loyal and gentle to hang on to every now and then. 

The Wind

The last couple of days have been windy. An almost weird kind of warm, but seriously windy.

Grace and I enjoy all kinds of weather, in moderation, of course. Nothing beats a walk in a warm steady rain, kind of makes you feel like your sins are really being washed away. A couple feet of snow can be fun to plow your way through, especially if you're the first person and dog to make tracks. Even in the heat, if we get up early enough or stay up late enough, we are usually able to find a comfortable time to walk.

Wind is a different story for both of us.

Wind is just down right odd when you consider how strong it is, the damage it can cause and yet it's really invisible. You only see the results of the wind, not really the wind itself.

I'm sure wind has its purpose and all of that, but it's very aggravating. You know, it blows dirt and stuff in your eyes. It rearranges your patio furniture. I don't even want to get started on the part it leaves in the back of my head when I'm on the playground for recess. A casual walk around the block turns into some sort of trek.

If possible, Grace hates it more than I do. At least, that's what I think she said. She cannot stand the way the wind makes the flags in the neighborhood snap (especially the UK flags) and the leaves swirl. The smells are really messed up too. She has to sniff everything in .an almost panicky, random sort of rhythm, which makes my walking and leash handling a challenge as well. The sounds don't travel like they should so it's hard for her to tell if someone is walking behind us or where the yapping ankle biter might be hiding.

 But we persevere and are extra thankful on the next calm day.

My Name is Angela. I am a Child of God.

My church has a Friday evening service that caters to parishioners that are often found on the fringes of our middle-class world. They are in the bottom end of the socio-economic ladder and many are fighting demons of alcoholism, drug addiction, and mental illness.

Last night was the first time I had attended that particular service, even after 10 months of being involved with the church. My good friend, Cheryl, is an active participant of Friday Church and can't seem to get through a single conversation about it without tears and a smile, and often a complete lack of words. Soooo, I decided I needed to check this stuff out.

I was struck by several things. The first was probably that the service itself was much like the "high church" I attend each Sunday morning. The music was a little more happening, with guitar and drums. I didn't stand out quite so much with my blue jeans as I tend to do on Sunday. But there was a Call to Worship (led by a parishioner), there was a time of confession and prayer. There was an offering time, a passing of the Peace, a sermon, a time of response. In addition, there was a hunger, an authenticity, a presence that was palpable and, like Cheryl, I'm unable to find adequate words to describe the way I felt. . . perhaps another day, after many more worship experiences at Friday Church.

The part I can put words to was the way the service was also much like a 12-step meeting in that each person, before he spoke, said his name, stated that he was an alcoholic, some added, "I am a child of God." Once that was said, the scripture was read, the prayer request was made, the service continued.

 I couldn't help but wonder if we would do the same thing at "high church" what would our response be. I mean, seriously, if you had to say outloud what you were and then carry on. I've probably been through enough "recovery" stuff to be able to say, "I'm Angela. I'm an Anorexic. I'm a Child of God." Not sure what everybody else would do sitting in the pews.

 But what if we had to go even deeper.

 "My name is Jeff. I'm an asshole. I'm a Child of God."

"My name is Bo. I'm a worrier. I'm a Child of God."

"My name is Sue. I don't speak to my sister. I'm a Child of God."

"My name is Bob. I care more about money than anything. I'm a Child of God."

"My name is Adam. I am a doubter. I'm a child of God."

"My name is Becky. I'm a liar. I'm a child of God."

I've got a feeling that most of us wouldn't be so quick to talk if that particular greeting was mandatory. But for those of us listening, it would serve to remind us that we are really more than our demons. . . . each of us is a child of God. That's big stuff. Stuff worth the trip to Friday Church.

Miracles

I've been reading Charlotte's Web to my third graders over the last couple of weeks. It is one of my favorite all time books. On the surface, it's a story about a spider and a pig, but deeper, it's a story of profound love and friendship.

At one point in the book, there is a conversation between two human characters in which they are discussing the miracle of the webs Charlotte spins with phrases like "Some Pig" and "Terrific" in an effort to save her friend from being slaughtered in the winter. One of the characters says that a spider's web is a miracle even without the words.

I posed a similar question to my class friends.

About half the class felt that any web was a miracle. They backed their opinions with evidence such as "Nothing else can make a web."  They finished their argument with that anything that something does without having to be taught is a miracle.

The other half was just as adamant in that a simple spider's web did not even come close to a miracle. Robbie said that if  a web was a miracle then so was peeing because a spider can "just do it." A couple more added that we're not taught to breathe or blink, are either of those miracles?

We spent the next few moments talking about miracles. Joe even looked it up in the Intermediate Dictionary.

David raised his chubby hand and scrunched up his face, as is his habit, and said haltingly that he thought he had actually experienced a miracle.

( David is an 8 year old going on 40. He brings Funyons for a "healthy snack", would rather play video games than kickball, takes medicine twice a day for attention issues. He also takes his backpack to the office each Friday for enough food to carry his family through the weekend. He is physically as slow as molasses, and he has all of the outward signs of a kid at risk for failing. In other words, David's got more issues than an 8 year old should have. But there is something about David. Something that is real and honest and wise. You just have to look beyond the left over chocolate around his mouth and try not to interrupt his sometimes lengthy thought process.)

Back to the miracle. . .

I asked David to share. He said that one time when he was at Six Flags there was a ride that he really wanted to go on but "you had to be tall to get on it." So, he prayed that God would let him be tall enough and it turned out he was! In David fashion he ended with, "So there. . . a miracle!" The rest of the group seemed to be okay with David's example and began their own litany of witnessed miracles, but their beloved teacher was not ready to let go of David's miracle.

"David, do you really think that was a miracle?"

"Yes, because the year before I wasn't tall enough to ride it, but God made a miracle and I was tall."

"David, do you think that maybe you just grew over the year and that's what made you tall enough for the ride?"

"I do." With a huge smile he said, "See. A miracle."

"Yes, David, I do see. It was a miracle."

Thank you, God, for the miracle of David, the wise mentor of this 48 year old teacher, who reminded me that every good gift is a miracle, that just because we've come to expect it, doesn't make it any less of a miracle.

Sam

I don’t often write of Sam anymore although he was the subject of most of my journal entries years ago. I wrote a collection of letters to him while I carried him inside of me and continued to chronicle his first steps ( Dec. 10, 1987) to the description of how he refused to leave his school supplies at school on the first day of kindergarten. I also wrote of more painful, stressful times as he grew from a strong-willed boy into an even stronger-willed young man. These days, though, the words don’t come.


Just as any mother worth her salt would say I love each of my three children equally, but I would also add, as most mothers won’t, that I love them so differently that’s it’s as if my love comes from three different people, as if they each had their own mother who all happen to be me.

Sam was my first. He introduced me to an entirely different kind of love. . . the kind where you would die, where you would kill, where you seem to wear your heart and feelings on the outside of your body where they are no longer protected by skin and bones.

I suppose being the “center” of a mother’s world is one of the perks as well as one of the perils of being the first child and, I often wonder, if Sam’s birth order has played a part in who he has become, if my borderline obsessive love for him did it, or if he is just Sam, or even more so, does it even matter.

I feel like I’ve been apologizing to Sam since he was just a baby or at least since the twins were born. In my warped young mind, I had it in my head that Sam’s vote in the family carried as much weight as my own, and there have been times when I’ve simply handed him my vote in order to avoid a conflict or a hurt feeling. I’ve recently decided not to do that anymore.

While divorcing his dad and later entering into treatment for anorexia, the fear of losing Sam was my biggest worry. It was bigger than starting a life on my own after 25 years. It was bigger than the possibility of losing that life to mental illness.

In the years since then, I’ve managed to put a band-aid on our relationship, but I still deny him access to my real self. The real me who would not make room for his ego, the me that would demand to be spoken to with honesty and respect. This has not only hurt me, but has hurt Sam’s own growth and self-discovery.

When I take my “mom” glasses off, I see Sam as a talented, articulate young man who drinks too much, who is unable to manage a romantic, healthy relationship with a woman. I see a man who spends more time on lies than sharing the genuineness that floods his heart. I see a man who is a great thinker and debater and shelters a tender heart. I see a man whose mother has tried to clear the path before him, leaving him with a sense that he can’t make his own way. . . so he attempts to fill the void with a false bravado that takes the form of alcohol or women or bullshit.

I know though, even if he doesn’t at this point in his life, that he is not only a member of a family that loves and cares for him, but the creation of a living and loving God. I’m beginning to finally understand that the same Spirit who found me on early morning walks five years ago, will also find Sam. That same sweet Spirit will whisper in his ear telling him he is more than what he has become. It will find him in the dark, take hold of his hand and bring him to the Light of his own goodness and worth.

I need to quit looking at Sam within the limits of being my son, and I need to see the unlimited possibilities within him as a child of God.

I love that boy and the human part of me wants to hold on to him and rescue him and make excuses for him and nag him for the rest of my life. That’s my job as his mother. But the truth is I love that boy so much that it’s time to give him back to God. . . just like the biblical Sam’s mother did. It’s time for him to feel the arms of the Spirit wrapped around him and that can’t happen until I release my own arms.

Gifts of Nothing

My friend’s mother died last week of pancreatic cancer. I never had the opportunity to meet her, but from observations it’s clear she lived a good life and left a cherished legacy to her sons, her granddaughter and all of those who were blessed by her presence.


Her death has left my friend surrounded by well-wishes and hugs from friends, flowers that need to be transplanted, plants too big for the house. He has also found himself with a list of to-do’s as he carries out the duties as the executor of his mother’s estate. In the meantime, he comforts his mother’s widower and his own daughter in their grief, while he attempts to walk the high wire of living without the safety net of his mother.

I was lucky enough to hang out with him a bit over the weekend and bear firsthand witness to his mother’s artistry in the mounds of quilts she left for him. Most of the quilts were made by her. Other quilts were from family members dating back to Pre-Civil War Era.

Along with those was a scrapbook containing photos with detailed descriptions handwritten with names, dates, cost of materials, even the number of stitches per inch, for many of her quilts. As I ran my hands over the quilts and read the details of each one I felt as if I was reading her diary. Her search for perfection, her love of whimsy, her awareness to detail, her devotion to family, all of these spoke loudly in each stitch, in every word.

It seems she enjoyed quilting with others. She remade worn quilts, allowed others to complete the quilting phase when her eyes would no longer let her do it. In other words, she welcomed the community into her quilting. I guess since my grandmother quilted alone and guarded her creations like the Hope Diamond I was more taken with this aspect than the quilts themselves.

In fact, the quilts that spoke loudest to me were the quilts that weren’t even there. His mother was rare in the fact that she actually gave many of her quilts away and not just to her sons and granddaughter. She gave quilts to cousins and friends, to step-children and in-laws. She presented quilts to folks who had not earned them or had “blood-rights” to them.

Apparently my friend’s mother was okay with letting the quilts go. Apparently she was even more gifted in letting go than in quilting.

Like all of our families, my friend’s is as messed up as any other. Divorce, death and mental illness have touched their family. His brother is gay and it doesn’t sound as if their dad was exactly warm and fuzzy. Oh and the icing on the cake, place this family in Mississippi. . .really. It quite possibly could be the setting for a tv drama.

Anyway, my friend described the funeral, complete with his brother’s partner and my friend’s ex-wife in attendance. And don't forget his mother's grown step-children and the daughter's boyfriend, most included in her obituary as well. When I asked him if his mother would have been okay with all of that, he smiled and quickly said, “Oh, yes.”

Seriously, why would I ask? She had already given them a quilt, which for a southern woman is the same as giving her unconditional love and acceptance. The ultimate stamp of worthiness.

No doubt the weeks and months to come will be difficult for my friend as he grieves the death of his mother. I know that he will remember good times and special moments as he sorts through the physical reminders of his mother’s life. I hope he finds pictures that he has forgotten and unexpected reminders of the full life she lived. I know there are tons of slides and videos left to hold on to. But, I’m starting to think the best thing she is leaving him is nothing at all.

The best part of herself she gave away and he was lucky enough to watch her do it, lucky enough to learn how to do it himself.

I’m sure he’ll feel shaky on the high-wire of living in the days ahead without the physical presence of his mother. I’m sure he will feel her arms wrapped around him when he slides under a quilt to sleep, and I’m also sure he will discover that her gifts of love and hope and acceptance will be sufficient in cushioning any fall.

My prayer would be to leave the same “nothing” for my own children.

Too Much?

School started this past week. I made the move to 3rd grade with only a little angst and a lot of excitement. I had spent 13 years in 5th grade, and it was definitely time to mix it up a little. Because of this change, my first day was certainly different than it has been in the past.

Fifth graders tend to swagger into class as seniors of the elementary school world. The girls usually hug each other and often squeal at each other's first day outfits. The boys smell like puppy dogs after we have PE or recess. A few of the kids have even started the journey into puberty and are a good head taller than their less mature classmates.

A good 5th grade teacher blends in with the pencil sharpener, serving as a facilitator in academic and social support; she certainly doesn't take center stage. Apparently, that's not the case in third grade.Turns out I could easily be a rock star to the 8 year old set.

Honestly, the one reason I requested my grade level change was that I had tired of the 5th grade curriculum. I mean I seriously know that the colonists beat out the redcoats in the Revolutionary War. I'm aware of the little known fact that The Boston Tea Party was in truth not your run of the mill tea party. I also know that "Checks and Balances" in government isn't about your mom balancing her checkbook. And truthfully, I think I might have run out of interesting ways to make any of those subjects relevant to my cell-phone carrying, ipod listening, converse wearing 5th-graders. So. . . I asked for a move.

 I think it's interesting how things that have worked for us in the past sometimes lose their hold over us and cause us to want something that we don't even recognize that we want. I'm not sure I really wanted 3rd grade; I was just finished with 5th grade. . . . like when I divorced Jeff or when I left ED.

 I wasn't completely sure what I did want but I knew instinctively that the time for  them to serve a purpose in my life was over. I was no longer in danger of losing my children if I divorced Jeff, and without the stressors of my life with Jeff, I really didn't need ED to cope any more.

I'm certainly not comparing my 5th grade years to a bad marriage or a mental illness. I would not trade my time with them (the 5th graders, of course) for anything. The lessons they taught me, the forgiveness and understanding they poured on me were gifts. Their need for my guidance and support were a true lifeline. I could even see myself going back to 5th grade in the future, if they could just get rid of all of the U.S. History stuff.  On the other hand, I would never even consider going back to Jeff or ED, no matter what either of them discarded.

The comparison between the two comes in me walking away from the known to a great big bunch of unknown and receiving gifts that I wasn't even aware that I wanted or needed.

Back to the first day of school.

I was taking the kids to music class when I felt a little hand very unassumingly, very innocently slip into my own. It simply took my breath away. When we played math games with partners, several of the kids asked me to be their partner. On the return morning, each child walked past my extended hand and into my arms for a goodmorning hug rather than a handshake.

I've written before that sometimes my contentedness and stable mental health frightens me. I look at my life and the goodness it is filled with and I'm afraid that I have too much. That's how I felt with this obvious affection from my new students.

"Too much" has always been a concern of mine. Somehow I've associated too much with greed, fearing that if I get more than my share someone else must do without. I'm learning, slowly. . but I'm learning that "too much" only goes with things like money or power or control or hurt.

I have an on-going discussion with Erika, where I tell her that I'm concerned that someday I will get so healthy I will forget about ED and that's when he'll have me again. She counters that I stay healthy because I never forget about ED. I sometimes fear the same thing about Jeff even though I know in my head that could never happen.

Anyway, with all of the physical touch from my 3rd graders, I realized how much I needed to be held. I had thought I had already put a check by everything on my list of needs but it turned out I actually needed to add things to the list.  Luckily, honest, authentic needs can never be too much. There is enough love for everybody to have more. There is enough contentment and wonder in the world for a second helping. There are plenty of 3rd grade hugs for me to want and receive every one of them.

God is good. Good enough to give gifts that I neither asked for or was brave enough to want. So while I fall in love with these 3rd graders or any of the other gifts in my life I'm not going to be afraid. Love and joy and peace and grace, the gifts I want in my life, are immeasurable. There is always enough and too much just doesn't exist.

Audience

Probably one of the most important concepts that I try to teach my students is that of audience. Mainly, you don't say "Yo!" as a greeting to the principal, and when you are writing a letter-to-the-editor, expressing a differing opinion, you don't sign the letter "Love, Bobby." It seriously takes the sting out of your letter.

When I was a kid, in the days before Caller ID, and my mom answered the telephone, I could always predict who the caller was by the tone of my mother's reply. (I could also tell when my grandmother called, but of course she is the only person who would call to chat before 7:00 a.m.) She knew her audience. So did I.

I'm sure my kids would say the same for me.

Hangin' with my extended family, my language is filled with "ain'ts," "cold drinks," and "hollers" (not the yelling kind.) In this setting, the oldest of us cousins (49) is still a grandbaby, not a granddaughter.

At church, my sometimes ugly mouth doesn't say nearly as many cuss words, and in a district-wide teachers meeting, I can actually sound like I know what I'm talking about in a fairly professional way.

Honestly, audience is one of the many things that I've struggled with over the years. A lot of the time I think I've been too focused on audience, to the point where I was more of an actor than a participant in my own life. I've tried to make happy endings, where there weren't any. I've tried to force pieces together that weren't even from the same puzzle.

When my ex-husband was the audience, I became passive, without need of tenderness or affirmation. I tried to convince my children that I had everything under control. I told my parents for years that I was happy and healthy, trying to convince myself as I repeated the words again and again.

In recent years, in healthier times, I have worked really hard to be my own audience in the way I choose to live. I've chosen to not only tell the truth, but try to live it as well. Certainly not an easy, or maybe even popular journey, but one that has allowed me to experience (and survive) both the good and the bad life has to offer. It has given me the chance to live honestly and to be present. I am finally able to honor and accept what God has created in me.

I have discovered that as I live authentically that the number of relationships in my life has actually grown and that all of those have morphed into something deeper and more meaningful, which is kind of the opposite as to what I expected.

I made this blog public in a weird way to protect myself. I figured I was going to be honest with myself, with others and that to some degree would keep folks at a distance.

I thought perhaps it would be meaningful to some other random person who spends her free time with Ed, but I was not prepared that it would actually draw people into my life. Since my aunts and friends have started  reading my writing and sharing it, I feel as if I've fallen in love all over again, with the realization that I didn't need to gauge my audience after all. They would love me in spite of, or maybe because of, my many imperfections and needs.

Life without secrets. . . I'm not sure it gets any better.

So while I still don't yell "Yo!" to my boss or sign my letters to the editor with "love," as to living (and writing) I'm going to keep showing up as me, ready and excited for what that might bring.

Holy Moments

My Sunday school class had a discussion on the word “holy” a couple of weeks ago. Actually it started out with the idea of each of us being priests, which ultimately led to us talking about what is holy.


None of us latched on to the idea of being priests. I mean, we’ve all read the papers in recent years and no one wants to sign on for that label. However, we all agreed that each of us had experienced moments in our lives that felt “holy.”

Even without a working, common definition, we described holy moments in the woods and forests, with the sun shining through the branches. We acknowledged times when the beauty of music or the grandeur of the sanctuary led to what we considered a holy time. Thinking back, we didn’t get much further than this.

More than what we actually listed, I noticed what we didn’t include: attending elementary piano recitals or church business meetings, walking the dog. Line dancing, mowing grass, and painting trim on a house were other moments also missing. As I write this now, I’m struck by the fact that most of what makes our actual lives did not make the list. I mean I’m very rarely in the woods looking at the sun and Easter & Christmas only come one time a year. But mowing grass and walking the dog, well, that’s another story.

Webster (I really hate writers who use the whole Webster thing as a segue but I couldn’t think of anything else, so. . . ) Webster defines holy as “devoted entirely to the deity or the work of the deity.”

I like that; if I choose to be a follower of Christ’s teachings then shouldn’t my life be devoted entirely to the “work of the deity.” (As my kids say, “Go big or go home,” which is a loose translation of the verse where Jesus said he really can’t stand the whole lukewarm thing, so much so that He would just as soon spit it out.)

Actually, I’m thinking that maybe my Sunday school teacher may have taught us that our very beings (bodies) were holy temples. I personally thought she shared that with us as we approached puberty to keep us from drinking or smoking or having sex – all of those things that you would never do in a temple, no matter how depraved you might be.

Now that I’m older and my BFF is menopause, I’m finally beginning to understand that maybe there’s more to this holy thing than my classes first response and maybe what Mrs. Bramel was referring to didn’t include drinking or smoking or sex. OK, I take that back. I’m pretty sure she meant sex, but maybe she also meant the way we actually live our lives should be holy.

A book that I recently read (which I can’t recall the title.. . remember my BFF) had a great quote that I actually wrote down: “There is a difference between what is pretty and what is holy.” Our recent Sunday school discussion, along with Webster and the holy temple thing made me begin to consider that maybe we were wrong about our holy moments.

I think that we sometimes confuse pretty for holy. Even my images of the Holy Mother are of a beautiful young woman, who gave birth (in a very neat fashion) to an equally beautiful baby (who never had projectile vomiting or diarrhea that shot up the back of his diaper.) But if the definition for holy is being completely devoted to the work of  God, my image doesn’t have to be reconfigured to fit my own interpretation of holy. Mary can be disheveled and screaming bad words and still be holy as a result of her devotion to His work.

Lucky for me, I’ve been witness to some holy times recently.

At my uncle’s funera, people stood in line for over an hour in an overcrowded, too hot room, to greet my aunt and cousins, most with sweat trickling down their back into their, well you get the picture. They were just a bunch of holy people hanging around to hug on Aunt Blanche.

The rest of the aunts hauled food and drinks and paper products, even a microwave, up two flights of steps so that we could all eat together after the visitation. They cleaned up late into the evening. That night they were all exhausted from holiness.

Ladies at my aunt’s church fixed macaroni and cheese and chocolate cakes to feed our family after the funeral. I bet their kitchens were messy with holiness.

On Saturday, a small, devoted group from my church continued to paint and clean a fellow member’s house. They good-naturedly harassed one another, gave water to the dog, shared their personal stories with the one standing next to them. . . big-time holy stuff.

Sunday afternoon was spent with Will and Carly. We played banagrams, ate lunch, listened to each other’s struggles and worries. We confessed and offered forgiveness; we even had a group hug, reminding each other how much he or she is loved. It was a fairly holy afternoon.

With all of this new found knowledge, I’m thankful that while my life is seldom pretty it certainly is holy.

Traveling Mercies

When I was a kid, my parents and I were part of Main Street United Methodist Church. A little church in downtown Covington, where there was often a drifter stopping by asking for food or gas money.

 On Sunday morning, the pastor wore a robe and the congregation recited The Apostle's Creed like all good Methodists. But our Sunday and Wednesday evening services took on a more casual style, where prayer requests were written down and the saints took to their knees to be about the serious business of approaching the throne of God.

Mrs. Clifton was one of those saints. On Sunday mornings, she blended in with the rest, singing the hymns and placing her offering envelope in the place. But Wednesday night, Mrs. Clifton took her place of leadership.

We protestants take a crazy kind of pride in the fact that we don't need a pope to serve as an intercessor to God, that we can approach Him individually, but even as a 10 year old, I instinctively knew that Mrs. Clifton was Main St.'s own personal pope. Trust me, God listened to her, if for no other reason, she could wear Him down because she took the Bible verse "Pray without ceasing" literally.

 She even had her own language, and it wasn't speaking in tongues either. She used words like "thou" and "thine." She addressed God as Father, Savior, Crucified One, Redeemer, Holy One, Lord and Sweet Jesus. She proclaimed her love and amazement for Him, asked for Mercy and Grace. She begged for forgiveness from our sins of omission and commission. She spoke specific names of the sick and the lost.

Sometimes I thought she was winding down when her voice grew quiet for a bit, but really she was just taking a break, regrouping, and she would start up again. Sometimes I prayed along with her, although my prayer was frequently that God would answer Mrs. Clifton's prayer so she would quit praying.

All of these years later, my favorite prayer phrase of Mrs. Clifton is "traveling mercies." Back then, my mom explained that meant she was praying for those who were traveling or were on the road. I thought they were both crazy because if you looked around at our working class congregation even I knew there wasn't a lot of vacationing going on with this group.

This week I couldn't help but think of Mrs. Clifton.

I traveled to Santa Fe with two friends, Cathy and Mary. It was a repeat trip of last summer, but my growing state of mental health caused me to think of other things besides how I was going to manage my eating disorder. This year, I thought about the actual trip. . the airplanes, the driving on unfamiliar streets, walking after dark without my dog. I actually thought this might be an occasion to use Mrs. Clifton's prayer for traveling mercies.

When I was safely home, I got a call from my mom telling me that one of my uncles had just died. Seems like I wasn't the only one traveling, and with that thought, I understood Mrs. Clifton's prayers.

We all travel whether we ever leave town or not. Each of us walks our own path, takes our own journey. None of us manages to travel through life without finding our way into a dark valley or two. We all get lost, our battery dies, we run out of gas. Sometimes we go on solitary walks and other times we march together.

Since my walk away from a painful relationship with my ex-husband and then again from anorexia, I've embraced Darryl Scott's song lyrics:

I walk a crooked road to get where I am going, to get where I am going I must walk a crooked road.

This reassures me that I'm not the only one who has taken the long route and it also reminds me that my road will continue to be crooked. And maybe that's the way it's designed. Maybe all the interesting roads, the roads worth traveling are crooked.

Maybe when Mrs. Clifton prayed for traveling mercies she was asking God to walk with us, to keep our eyes open on the journey. Maybe she was asking God to lead us to other travelers that could use some support or help. Maybe her prayer was for those facing changes, going through sicknesses, preparing to die.

I think from now on, when Grace and I walk we will simply pray for traveling mercies. . outside of thank you, it may be the best prayer ever.

Summer of Sanity 2011

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Will and I were sitting on the back porch talking about summer the other evening. I was actually reminding him to water my flowers in the early morning, not in the noontime heat, while I am away on vacation next week. Just so happens I'm leaving my dog with him too, and Grace is an early riser. So I told him to walk her when she barked in the am., water my flowers, feed the "zoo" THEN go back to bed. If you know Will, you know he is very good about pretending listen without any rancor and then doing it how he wants to do it. I know this, but for some reason, I always like to go on record with all of my instructions.

Will is in a crossroads of his life right now. He's finished with college, old friendships have shifted and, honestly, I think he's ready for something new. All of this angst and unknown crap has caused his summer to be less than stellar.

Mine on the other hand, has been maybe the best ever. Funny thing is, though, I think I might have said that last year.

When I was sharing this with Will, he asked what had made it so great and I really couldn't give a specific reason and as I considered all that had pleased me this summer I sounded a little too happy and I seriously don't want to be that person.

 I finally said that I guess I was just feeling sane and was able to actually be aware of the sanity. He quickly dubbed it, "The Summer of Sanity 2011." He said it sounded like a band tour and he thought I could sell t-shirts. So instead of listing all the cities where the tour has visited, I'm listing a few of the amazing spots this Summer of Sanity has taken me.

• the dentist -- first time in five years. . . I seriously hate the dentist. He/she gets all up in your face, and I've always been convinced they can tell everything I've ever eaten. And, I don't floss, which somehow brings me shame especially at the dentist.
• Judith - a psychotherapist who specializes in a treatment called EMDR, for trauma survivors.  After 4 visits, voila! no more nightmares with Jeff playing the starring role.
• Cousin Josh's wedding -- where I wore what I wanted and ate wedding cake.
• Family Reunion - where I hung out with the family, ate a total of 3 chicken legs and 2 revoltingly huge butter creme cupcakes. Cousin Aletia says it's ok because it's reunion food.
• Churchill Downs - made a few bucks off of Calvin Borel's good fortune and ate an ice cream cone Will bought for me.
• a new doctor -- no cutting or restricting or laxatives, even after she did a blind weigh on me
• hung out for an afternoon helping a hoarder go through her things. It was the first time I felt my own mental illness may have been helpful.
• ate at a Wednesday night church dinner
• joined a Wednesday night group at church. . . no shit, I mean, no kidding!
• Went to a Gatewood Galbraith fundraiser to hear the Goosecreek Symphony. Pot was everywhere and I felt no outrage or disgust.
• Saw a concert at Rudyard Kipling. It reminded me that so many wonderful little things are in the middle of messy, sad things, especially neighborhoods.
• Went to a free concert on the Great Lawn and watched the fireworks. 25,000 people and I was able to hold my own space.
• Went to McCreary County with a church group to help build a house.  At one of the suppers at the church that week I ate 2 pieces of angel food cake. I also heard a couple of "How do you stay so thin?" comments, which was a real boost to my body image, which will probably always be distorted.
• Spent the day with Cathy and her grandkids on the Waterfront, with enough energy to pedal a bike and enough sanity to eat an ice cream with Jax.
• Spent hours on my deck, reading and writing.
• Hiked in Bernheim Forest.
• Daily walks with Grace.
• Trips to my parents
• movies
• lunches with friends

The cool thing is that I was actually there. I mean, I tasted that Butter Creme cupcake. I smelled the manure in the paddock at the track. I felt the despair and loneliness in my new friend's home filled to the brim with dirt and dust and filth and stuff. My stomach hurt at the dentist. I was acutely aware of how bad a couple of the movies were that I had paid good money to watch. The feelings leftover from my marriage were real and painful as I sat in Judith's office. I saw the splendor in the flowers at Bernheim.  I experienced it all, and I survived the scary parts and thrilled in the mundane.

Sometimes I worry that my sanity will peak, that the joy and peace deep within me will hit a plateau and start to wane. . . so I have to let myself feel that worry but also remind myself of the work I have done to put safety nets in place. . and move on to the next moment.

The Summer of Sanity 2011 -- I think a t-shirt would be perfect because it seriously rocks!

Jakob's Prayer

This past weekend my extended family on my dad’s side gathered at the Stuart Robinson School in Eastern Kentucky for our annual family reunion. SRS used to be a boarding school for students who were unable to navigate the mountainous roads and weather back in the day. Today it’s been modernized and is rented out to different kinds of church and scout groups. It’s actually perfect for our family, since it’s close to our original home place, has dorms for the whole family as well as a working, air-conditioned kitchen.

We’ve been getting together fairly regularly for the last 35 years, I think. At that time, I was only 14 or so and several of the grandchildren hadn’t even been born. We met at Boonesboro State Park back then. My dad and uncles played softball and basketball and someone always turned his ankle. We also dealt with the hot weather as we set up our food using an outdoor pavilion, without running water. Keep in mind, we were all younger and tougher back then.

These days, the uncles play horseshoes and cornhole, and the aunts require air conditioning in their kitchen as well as a clean bathroom to use. You know, it’s a kinder, gentler reunion, with auctions, talent shows, and scavenger hunts. Although, just like my popaw taught us, we like to win even if it means cheating. And, if someone should tell you they're not cheat, they’ve just taken a break from cheating to lie to you.

Anyway, I’m not sure if we’ve ever all been in attendance at any one reunion. (There’s a bunch of us. . . 11 children (and spouses), 18 grandchildren (and spouses), 22 greats and even one great-great as of this minute.)

I don’t think anyone takes roll or anything official, but I do know that my grandpa died before we ever had the first reunion, and he’s probably the one who would have enjoyed them most. We buried my granny ten plus years ago. Then, of course, soon after, we somehow let Wib, a beloved grandson, slip through our fingers – we don’t talk about it much – a tragedy too terrible for words. But our hugs to each other last a little longer and each of us is more aware of the preciousness of time. So, with those goodbyes, I guess we’ll never ALL really be together.

As with any family, especially a large one, we are as functionally dysfunctional as they come. Our different perceptions of the same experiences make for feelings and thoughts that leave us confused at the least and profoundly hurt on the other end. The thing you gotta love about us, though, is we keep coming back, showing up for each other.

We are diverse in our religious, political, social, and environmental beliefs. Our bumper stickers prove that point. Well, actually, we are diverse in everything, except the big brown eyes that tend to dominate our gene pool.

With each new flight from our collective “Collins nest” we seem to move further from these beloved mountains. Nate’s in New Mexico, Sherry’s family lives in Michigan, Jewell’s in North Carolina, and, for now, Sam hangs his hat in New Jersey, where they don’t even serve gravy on biscuits!

For me, though, all of our differences make it even more amazing how deeply we really do love one another. How we each carry this need to be part of this family, to be labeled as belonging to Charlie Collins. And when we find our way to Letcher County, we all feel that we’ve found our way home.

This year, I got the opportunity to hang out with my 2nd cousin Jakob. Jakob is four years old, and he convinced me to take a walk with him over the grounds. We found a robin’s egg shell, mushrooms, walnuts, and stick/guns. I couldn’t help but think how the two of us were connected. His mother and I are first cousins, his grandmother is my father’s sister. His great-grandfather was my grandfather. In other words, we probably don’t have the same blood type or anything.

Yet we found ourselves together on this beautiful summer day, delighting in the mere presence of each other. We trusted one another not because we knew the other – he probably still doesn’t know my name! – but because the circumstances of the gathering dictated we could – after all, we’re family. Somehow, we knew. . . Jakob as well as I.

After our first walk, the aunts called us in to eat the noon meal. We circled up holding hands to say a prayer. Even though we think we’re fairly modern, our mountain ancestors still come through as “one of the men” traditionally prays. This year Jakob volunteered.

His voice rang out sweet and strong as he sang. I think he sang for all of us, the living and the dead, those who chose to be present and those who did not. He sang for great-grandparents he never knew and for the second, third, maybe fourth cousins that have yet to be born.

God our Father, God our Father
We thank You, We thank You
For our many blessings, for our many blessings
Amen Amen

Jakob did not ask God to change anything about our family. He didn’t ask for safety, for healing, for forgiveness. He simply thanked God for the many gifts He had given to this great big family and, for that moment, we were finally all together. I think I even heard Popaw laugh.

Weeds

The school year 2010-2011 will go down in my personal history as the single most difficult class for me to date. My principal said there was “no synergy.” I’m not sure of an exact definition of that word but I think it was just one of many things that was lacking. I’m hoping, though, that the year wasn’t a total wash for the kids. I’m naïve enough to think that there were moments that will perhaps be remembered with a smile.


I know, for me, there were definitely lessons to be learned even on the most unmanageable days. Big lessons. . . like forgiveness, second chances, understanding, even third & fourth chances. But, the biggest lesson for me this year began with the hundreds of dandelions that appeared on our playground seemingly overnight on the first warm day of the year.

The girls picked bouquets of the yellow dandelions while the boys kicked the tops off the flowers that had already turned to seed. (In another, more gentler, year the dandelion heads would have been blown off but this was a different kind of year – remember “no synergy.”)

After recess the kids managed to bring several of the flowers inside and proceeded to ask some noteworthy questions that I used as a jumping off point for some research that would no doubt involve language arts and math. It turned out that the lesson I learned was not the one I had planned.

Somewhere, amid taking apart dandelions for a closer look with a magnifying glass, attempting to count the seeds, contemplating theories as to why they grow so fast, someone asked the question, “Why do people think these are weeds?”

Fairly quickly, Lydia found the definition for a weed on-line, and I was surprised. A weed, simply, is what grows where a gardener doesn’t want it to grow. So, in theory, a rose bush growing in my yard is a weed, if I’d rather not have it there.

As my good friend Mary often says, “It’s all about perception.”

This new knowledge caused me to think about my own children and the dozens of dandelion bouquets they had presented to me over the years during their childhood. Believe it or not, I actually had a special vase for the yellow beauties, and I even added water to these beloved treasures.

My own kids are 24 and 22 now so it’s been awhile since they have presented me with these flowers, and I can’t help but wonder what Spring it was when they saw these plentiful wild flowers as weeds.

I’m not exactly sure when that happened, just as I’m not exactly sure who told them they were weeds. I do know this. . . adults that my children love (Maybe even their mother, God forbid) pointed out that they were weeds by spraying herbicides  all over their yards, by making less than flattering comments about other folks’ dandelion-laden yards, and what kid hasn’t had an adult fuss at them for blowing the dandelion seeds all over the place. All of these things served to slowly but very surely switch my kids’ perception of dandelions from a beautiful flower that was the perfect Mother’s Day gift to an ugly weed that is an embarrassment to any middle-class American.

Unfortunately, I think we do the same thing with people that are “weeds.” You know, people that seem to be where we would rather not have them, like homeless people wandering the streets, poor mothers applying for welfare, women in positions of power, immigrants speaking a different language, gays trying to raise families.

Really, these people are, well, just people, nothing more or less. Just like the dandelion is just a plant. It’s our perception that turns them into unwanted members of our community, members that we label because for whatever reason they make us feel uncomfortable.

The real tragedy is that my children, our children, are listening to the messages we send as we try hard not to make eye contact with the homeless, when we make rude comments about people on welfare, when a strong woman is referred to as a bitch, when we use a different language to exclude immigrants, when we laugh at gay jokes that we think are harmless. And then, suddenly, one warm Spring day, our kids see weeds instead of a mixture of people that all have a story, that are all worthy of a place in our community.

It makes me sad to know that Sam, Will and Carly will never bring me another dandelion bouquet. I only hope they weren’t listening too attentively to the lessons they have probably been taught about people as well. I want them to realize that weeds don’t actually exist, not in the garden, not in our community, not in the world.

One Fine Day

After a really good night's sleep, I woke up late (for me and Grace) and sort of eased into the day. Ate breakfast, read the paper, got ready for church, walked.

Did the Sunday School and church game, which still seems strange, after worshipping at St. Tom Sawyer Park every Sunday morning for the last two summers. After swearing that "I won't ever belong to another church again in this lifetime" four years ago, I officially joined Highland this morning.

This afternoon I read some of Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter and then took a nap. I talked with Sam; he was taking a vacationing friend's dog for a walk. I talked with Carly; she was on her way to work. I talked with Will; he was on his way home from a Reds game. They lost by the way.

I talked with my mom on the phone, and she's ready for her bunco game tomorrow night. Dad made fudge for her friends since mom is the official hostess.

Cathy and I went to hear Alison krauss and Union Station at the Palace this evening, but after we ate fish sandwiches and french fries at Cunninghams. I ran into Jacquie and her husband. Then we saw Bonnie from school. I bought a t-shirt at the concert.

I got home at midnight, walked Grace, ate a bowl of Life cereal and am now writing down some thoughts for today, except they are more facts than thoughts. So, I guess in thinking about the facts, I've had one fine day.

Just Leave It

This morning Grace and I took our walk in the rain. About half way around the block, she stopped and picked something up from the sidewalk. It was dark so I couldn't tell what it was. Usually, it's something like an empty bag of chips or candy bar wrapper. After all, she's a dog.

I gave the command to "leave it." She is actually very good about this lately, but not so much this morning. With no reaction from her, I repeated "just leave it" in my deepest, most serious voice and then I waited, resisting the urge to pull it from her mouth, hoping beyond hope that she would do the "right thing."

After several seconds (that seemed like minutes) she looked up at me with her sad dog eyes, straightened her curly tail, made a huge sigh and slowly dropped her treasure, which turned out to be a robin who had recently taken its last breath.

I couldn't help but be a little proud of Grace and I told her so if "You are such a good puppy" qualifies as telling her that I was proud of her behavior.

She went against every cell in her body and chose to obey me. And her obedience did not come from fear. (Unlike my children, Grace has never been spanked.) Her obedience came from trust, which only comes from love. Grace doesn't understand why, but knows in her soul, which is even more powerful than her instinct, that I will only ask her to do what is ultimately in her best interest. The praise from me was more satisfying to her than the fun she could have had with that dead bird.

I couldn't help but think of God and what the Spirit sometimes requires of me. I like to hold on to bitterness and anger and, especially, fear. I find it in the dark, just like Grace did, and hold on to it tight. God gently but firmly asks me to "leave it." 

Unlike Grace, I don't always listen to the One who loves me most. I try to reason and explain my way out of leaving it. God doesn't try to wrestle it from me or trick me into dropping it. He waits, secretly willing me to do what he asks.

 So I sit with it for awhile, show him my sad human eyes, and if I had a curly tail I would definitely straighten it. . . and then (after years) I listen to my soul and not my humanness, and I let it go, trusting that I can trust God, that His pleasure in me is with worth more than whatever I've been holding on to.

Unfortunately, I tend to find the same dead bird on lots of my walks, but God continues to love me, showing me more each day how the Spirit can be trusted. . . and more and more often I drop it with the first command. Sometimes, I don't even stop to pick it up.

My Right Mind

"Easter persons are people who have had the intervention in their lives: A call to leave the brickyard and go out. A call to be healed and get in our right minds. A call to yield our stuff and follow him. The intervention changes everything. But it demands abandoning and embracing. And that is always promise and threat. . . " Walter Brueggemann

I've heard my granny say, "Oh, honey, he's just not right" when referring to someone whose thinking didn't necessarily square with my granny's definition of normal. Being "not right" didn't have anything to do with being wrong, but everything with just a touch (or a bunch) of insanity. I'm pretty sure that my own journey with mental illness would have been described by my Eastern Kentucky people as "not quite right," and they would have hit the nail on the head.

While systematically trying to starve yourself is clearly not part of a right mind, I've been trying to figure out lately what  it is that a right mind does contain. And is that the end of the journey?

The quote at the beginning of this entry was on the cover of the Order of Worship for the church I've been attending. I spent most of the service trying to decide if I was finally in my right mind and if that was really enough.

I've certainly had the intervention that Brueggemann writes about and I've certainly left the brickyard and been healed. I'm finding myself stuck though in "a call to yield our stuff and follow him." I've never considered myself very materialistic so I always thought that yielding my stuff would be a cinch. Today it finally dawned on me that was not necessarily true.

My stuff is not money, property, power, prestige but hurt, control, bitterness, fear. At some point I have to be brave enough to open my heart to new experiences and relationships, not allowing my sometimes jaded view of the world based on some past experiences to act as a lock on the front door. Only yielding my stuff will allow me to fully be what God has created me to be. 

 In our prayer of confession this morning, the congregational response was "Help us to let go now." That is my goal. I want to let go now, forgive myself, put down the hurt and fear that I often hold too close. It's time to put down the baggage and allow my walk to move forward, not merely around the block.

 I'm tired of being guarded and careful and thinking things to death. I'm going to trust that the same spirit Jesus breathed on his disciples before his ascension and the same spirit that finds me in the darkness and speaks peace to me will also accompany me into the daylight surrounded by others. I've had a long time to practice the alone stuff now it's time to move out. It's time to "yield my stuff."

These days I spend most of my time in my right mind. Now I'm ready for a right heart as well.



The 34th Day of Lent

A rainy, cold day. Stinks if you're at the fireworks show (Thunder) kicking off the Derby Festival. But, since I've spent the day running errands and hanging with Will, the weather didn't have much play in my day.

The rain held off long enough for me to walk a couple of times with Grace. My ankle is feeling stronger each day, and, with the brace on securely, I'm starting to increase my walking, which is already helping with my mental state.

Having Will around has helped me cut back on obsessive thoughts, and eating has been a breeze. I think things are getting back to normal for me, slowly but surely. . . thanks to getting back to basics.

Dear Renfrew Crew,

Thank you for teaching me some really stupid little quotes that have changed my life, such as:

• Put your feet on the floor.
• Do the next right thing.
• Your worth can't be measured in weight.
• Balance is everything.
• Get out of your head.

You also told me not to depend too much on the f word when describing my feelings or mood. The f word being Fine. Fine is never honest.

You held the space for me to put everything else on hold and concentrate only on recovery. You took my cell phone, monitored mail, set my bedtime and wakeup time. You counted how many times I walked up the steps each day. Gave me bonus points whenever I asked for support. You counted my calories for me and kept the numbers on the scale a big secret. You held on to my razor and checked my body each day for cuts.

You completely eliminated any chance of me making an unhealthy choice, and allowed my body and brain to become well-fed and unmedicated.

This week I've gone back to the quotes often and refused to let myself say I'm fine. I'm glad I spent those 40 days with you. Sometimes, I'm far enough from those days that I start to wonder if I was ever really sick enough to have even been admitted.

This week, I know that I was and that the foundation you helped me to build has proven strong even when my fortitude is not. I not only survived this week, but I thrived. I chose to live well in the midst of anxiety and stress. I chose to keep my feet on the floor and move forward.

Life is good. Thanks for helping me to discover that.

Angela

The 33rd Day of Lent

As you can probably notice this is not a letter. I've got too much going on in my brain to write a letter with a prescribed form, coherent and orderly paragraphs, salutations and closings. (Can you tell I teach elementary school?) This entry is a rambling of sort.

The last few weeks (maybe months) have been different, with twists and turns that I did not have on my list of things to do.

In January, I was held captive as a juror for two weeks, only to have the one trial I sat on declared a mistrial. I also went to the gynecologist and had a mammogram, where I was weighed outside of a support member for the first time in several years. I also had to have a follow-up ultrasound and diagnostic mammogram, which, thankfully, was for naught.

The rest of January and February was full of freezing, dark days, where I ended up with a cold and cough that lasted for years, well, maybe not years. Anyway, I finally took some Nyquil to get some relief, but it felt too familiar and I didn't take anymore.

I also somehow managed to turn my ankle, resulting in a torn tendon. I limped around for a few weeks, then finally started the doctor journey on the first day of March.

March found me going back and forth to drs. and an MRI, along with a brace and a boot. Long story short, it still hurts, but recovery is in sight. But, because of this, I have been on a limited walking schedule for the better part of two months. For those of you who read this blog or know my crazy habits, you realize how big this actually is..

In between all of this, my ex-husband (I won't even say his name) has continued to cause Carly hurt, which has resulted in her withdrawing from him not just physically but financially. For all intents and purposes, he will no longer be paying her tuition or rent. He really doesn't have a clue as to what he is losing. He has a daughter that most fathers only dream of and he is choosing to be "right" and "in-control" rather than having his greatest blessing as a part of his life.

At night, my ex has also continued to make his way into my dreams. Dreams where I feel trapped into going back to him, where there are no doors for me to exit. I guess nightmares is a better word than dreams. In the last month or so, I've found myself having difficulty breathing while I brush my teeth and chewing food has become a little bothersome . . . both of these are old feelings from when I was still married.

Erika (my e.d. bff) thinks its time to work on the marriage shit. I really thought that divorce was enough, but apparently 25 + years of living with a narcissist can have long lasting effects. . . who would have thought. So in my never ending search for balance, I've started working with another therapist, Judith, (at Erika's suggestion) who works with women who have endured emotional, mental or physical trauma. I'm not ready to wear the victim label quite yet, but I'm starting to concede that I might have a bit of emotional "baggage."

With all of this, I stepped on the scale (with support) to see that I had lost nine pounds in the last 6 weeks. I'm still within the technical range, but just barely and technically. Time for the big guns.I knew right where they were.

So, with all of that, I lied. Here's a letter:

Dear Angela,

I just wanted to tell you how you were quite the bad ass this week and I'm proud of you. You walked into school knowing your weight was down, after having been up with bad dreams for most of the night, all but emptying your desk in search of anything sharp.

 You stopped. Sent an email to Erika (and Judith.) Then you sent another email to Pam, Bonnie and Phyllis asking them to hold you accountable for your actions and you got up from your desk and got busy teaching.

Twice this week, you wanted to go home early and go to bed, but instead of calling for a sub, you chose to talk with Mary, who told you in no uncertain terms that there was no way in hell you were going home. So you stayed and things got better.

You told Cathy that you needed to eat with her on a night that you found it difficult to choose to eat on your own. You all talked about your day and your kids and your books, and you ate everything on your plate.

 You gave into adding an Ensure to your diet, while working on the Jeff stuff, at Erika's request.

You met with Erika for therapy just five days after meeting with Judith, and you are on the books for Judith on Wednesday.

You kept up with your gratitude journal and you faithfully took the prozac that Dr. Stevens doubled a few weeks ago.

You've rejected the idea of meds that might help you sleep, even though the voice in your head seems to suggest it every night.

You're in control, Sister. A good, healthy control. You are choosing recovery and life and yourself, with every single breath.

I, for one, could not be more proud of you. I could not be more thankful for your journey.

Angela

The 30th Day of Lent

Dear Pam,

Today when I realized that I needed someone to hold me accountable I knew you were my go-to, and your response was just what I needed. Knowing that you realize how difficult it is for me to ask for support and expressing how proud you were of me made it much easier for me to do the right thing all day long.

You've been there for me through it all. You're willing to bash Jeff when I'm not up to the task. You'll put me to sleep by working a crossword puzzle. You'll even take the long walk to my left-wing thinking all the way from your right-wing thinking to make sure I'm still sane enough to get by, but crazy enough to still be fun. You even give me the peanuts out of your chex mix and realize how important a diet coke can be at just the right time.

On most things, we're probably polar opposites, and I even wonder why we're such good friends, so I can only imagine what others think. But on the important stuff like loyalty, being authentic, loving kids and enjoying our white-trash lifestyle, we're united through and through.

Thank you for listening to me rant and rave; thank you for encouraging me in my search for sanity. Thank you for letting me talk for 15 minutes to kindergarteners and 5th graders about how deep big balls need to be planted and not completely falling apart.

Thanks for being one of the few that realizes my heart is probably softer than I pretend it is.

You'll be my first phone call if I should ever need a kidney or be bailed out of jail because you would act first and maybe never ask for an explanation. Thanks for being my friend, for having my back, for loving me just the way I am.

Angela

Goodbye, Spring Break!

Tonight's the end of my official Spring Break. It was fairly uneventful, but full and satisfying. I spent last weekend in Murray with Cathy watching two of her grandchildren. It made me decide that I'm definitely going to be the best and coolest grandma ever, just not right now.

My dad came down and worked in my bathrooms, changed the furnace filters, mowed my grass, all of the things that he does to let me know he cares for me. I used to think he did those kinds of things because he didn't think I was capable; I know now that isn't true.

I saw a movie with Cathy (The Lincoln Lawyer) and ate at Ditto's. I took my car registration to the court house and didn't have to pay any fee. Hooray! I'm sure I walked too much. (I may the first person to actually wear out a "boot.")  I wrote quite a bit in my journal, read even more than I wrote, took several naps, spent this weekend with Carly and rode to the mountains for a family wedding shower with Mom and Carly. The redbud trees were breathtaking.

This afternoon, I've done some laundry, sat and read on my deck ( and enjoyed the pansies Carly and I planted this weekend). Now I'm thinking about a new day tomorrow and how I can make the last few weeks of school better than ever. The kids and I deserve to go out big.

Oh, and Carly taught me how to brush Grace without her having a major meltdown.

I talked with Will and Sam today. All three kids love me and know that I love them right back.

A trip to Florida could not have been any better.

The 24th Day of Lent

Dear Kay Jacobs,

I haven't talked with you in awhile, but I think of you often and ALWAYS remember your birthday!

When I think about my life as a young adult, your friendship is the cornerstone. I was gravitated towards you in our undergraduate education class at the University of Louisville simply because you were older than everyone else, and I figured you would be the one that would have her act together. I was right.

At the young age of 33, you had already seen more of the dark side of life than I would probably ever see. You had lost your mother as a child. Your grandmother raised you. At 16, you were married, pregnant and a high school dropout. When I met you, you already had two teenage daughters and had been working as a kindergarten aide for the last several years.

You and I waded our way through college, graduating on time with a magna cum laude to boot. My graduation was fairly unremarkable; it was expected of me. You were what we celebrated.

Watching you struggle with a family and bills and school, seeing you refuse to fail, claiming your difficult history with pride rather than shame still causes me pause and makes me realize that if you can raise yourself up then so can I.

You used to say, "One day at a time, just one day at a time." That could very well have been the very best lesson I learned in college.

Thank you.
Love, Angela

Is It Still Lent?

I'm really not even sure what month or day it is, but I'm pretty sure that it's still lent and I'm way behind on my letters. I think I'm ahead on life though so I guess that's the main idea anyway.

My ankle is starting to feel stronger, I think. I've slept some better the last couple of nights. The Cincinnati Reds won their opening day game for Will. The Final Four tickets that Will sold to Cathy's daughter, Kristin, actually arrived in time. . . and today the sun was shining in Murray, where I'm spending the weekend with Cathy to sort of help out with her grandkids, Ben and Cate.

After the last 24 hours, I'm beginning to realize why God did not create 48 year old women to be mothers of young children. I'm exhausted, but in a sort of good way.

As I was swinging Ben at the park this morning, I was reminded how lucky I am to spend most of my days with children. . . so here's a generic, but very heartfelt letter.

To All of the Kids that have been part of my life:

Thanks to all of you for the hugs and pats. Thanks for the letters that you write telling me I'm pretty and smart and cool. Thank you for letting me share in your excitement on the first warm day of Spring as we go to recess with a brand new kickball.

Thank you for teaching me that a simple, "Will you be my friend?" can be the start of a beautiful thing.
Thanks for all of the questions and the big dreams. Thank you for being outraged at injustice and building stick houses for caterpillars.

Thanks for the Valentine's and 2-inch high school pictures. Thanks for thinking that eating lunch with me is a reward and not a consequence.

Thanks for caring about the illness and death of a class hamster and for really believing that you can save the earth.

Thanks for trusting me enough to share your secrets and pain. Thank you for spending your time and energy with me, for being so free with your love. You have saved me in so many ways.

Thank you.

The 18th Day of Lent

Dear Rufus and Henri,

With the coming of Grace into our family, the two of you have often taken a back seat. Competing with a 100 pound puppy can be tough for two 10 pound cats, but I'll have to give you credit. . you both can hold your own with her, even if her love is a little rough.

Truthfully, though, you all were around during the very darkest of days. Henri climbed me like a telephone pole and, Rufus, you walked on top of me instead of around, just to shake things up a bit. Even in my depression you two snuggled close and expected food and a clean litter box. Petting you guys, feeling your vibrating purrs under my hand kept me grounded and alive during some pretty long nights.

Even now, when I wake up from an all too frequent nightmare featuring past mistakes, I find you stretched out next to me, assuring me that my real life is the good stuff and the scary stuff is just a distant memory.

You know, it's the behind the scenes work that is the most important. Sure, Grace gets to walk in the neighborhood and take trips in the car, but you are the guys I curl up with at night. Your work and faithfulness to me in the dark has made all my time in the light possible.

I couldn't thank you enough.
I love you.
Mom

The Seventeenth Day of Lent

Dear Mom,

I've been putting this letter off because you really deserve a well thought out, multi-draft letter, and I've been waiting for the perfect time. Since I've been in a little bit of a flat spot, I wanted to wait until it passed and I could really fire up all of the engines in my heart and mind.

On reflection, though, I realize that maybe when I'm struggling some is the perfect time to write to you. You are probably the only person who trusts in my recovery even in the difficult times. You realize how dedicated I am to my healthy rituals, and you don't sit around waiting and praying for the mental illness to go away because you know that it is part of who I am. . . and interestingly enough, because you are my mother, you love and claim all of those parts.

It would take a very large book to record everytime you have saved me over the last 48 years so I'm not even going to try. The only thing I can do is to try to pay it forward. Watch the love and passion I have for Sam, Carly and Will and know that your love has made that possible.

I wish I could promise that it's all downhill from here, but since I don't read the future I can't make that promise. However, I can say that my love for you will only grow stronger with each passing day, and for now and always, it will always be you and Jesus that I know will never leave me alone. And for that, during this Lenten Season, I will give thanks.

I love you.
Angela Lou Collins

Little Easter

If anyone cares, Sundays are technically not part of the season of Lent. In the early days, Christians celebrated the resurrection of Jesus each week, not just once a year -- hence the term "Little Easter." Sooo, if you count the days on your calendar between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday you're going to come up with more than forty, if you count Sundays. Seriously, most people could care less, but, hey, I kind of like the explanation.

Anyway, my ankle has been messed up, and I've been in quite a bit of pain. My walking has been curtailed to the minimum and to ensure that, my doctor has placed my foot in a "boot" that certainly limits my agility and speed. (I'll find out next week, if surgery is required.)

The tough part though has been the mental and emotional pain that have been a serious side effect of the ankle injury.

Walking has become my number one way to deal with my mental illness. It is my way of dealing with anxiety, offering prayers, showing my committment to continuing in recovery, moving through the crap that often gets stuck in my mind. So no walking has left me in a bind.

Thankfully, I have good friends and family that are understanding and supportive. My therapist and psychiatrist have increased my sessions and my medication. Even my orthopedist is on-board with everything and is trying to expedite my recovery.

But, in the interim, I have found myself in a funk, and I have neglected (regretfully) my lenten letters. I started to beat up on myself a bit, but remembered the mantra of every person in recovery, "Do the next right thing." So instead of calling myself a failure and quitting, I am going to celebrate "Little Easter" today and continue my lenten journey tomorrow.

Thank God for second chances.

The Thirteenth Day of Lent

To the City of Louisville,

Thank you so much for the random planting of daffodil bulbs you have completed over the years. Right when I think that I'm just going to give in to the depression of a dark and dreary winter, I'm driving down the road and see a patch of daffodils, always in the most random and urban places.

I appreciate a government who not only provides libraries, police and fire protection, but considers the beautification of our city to also be of importance. Maybe, it's a cheaper way to attend to the city's collective mental health.

Truth be told, I've never used the police or had to contact the fire department. In fact, since I got Grace - the best book-chewing dog ever - I rarely even go to the library. The daffodils, though, they inspire me and remind me that Spring will certainly come. I wonder if this is what our Founding Fathers had in mind when they declared their independence from England.

God Bless America!
Angela Collins

The Twelfth Day of Lent

Dear God,

Thank you for sticking close by on days that are a little funky for me.

I like to think that you understand when I'm weary and words don't come easily for me. Believing that you are all-knowing makes words unnecessary, and every once and awhile, even I get tired of words. On this twelfth day of lent, I'm a little weary so you were my natural go-to for my lenten letter.

Thanks for letting me see you up-close and personal everyday. If I stayed focus, I experience you everywhere. You show up in nature, in books, in friends and family, in circumstances (both good and bad), in my very being. Wherever there is love, you are there. Actually, where there isn't love, you are also there, reminding me to be your feet and hands.

So I'm going to stop thinking of words to write that will accurately and eloquently describe the feelings of gratitude that I have tonight for your presence in my life because, well, you can read my soul better than you can read my words. For that, I am thankful.

Tonight I will rest in you.

Angela Lou Collins

The Eleventh Day of Lent

Dear Erika,

Thank you.

Angela

The Tenth Day of Lent

Dear Crestwood Peeps,

I just wanted to say thanks for the collective influence you have made in my life. It's nice to want to go to work everyday, knowing that no matter how different we all are, when the shit hits the fan we have each other's backs.

Every morning, Diane greets me with a weather report and a "Have a good day." Mary Ann and I usually say hooray when we check our mailboxes and find them empty. Somebody almost always says, "Startin' already?" as I buy my first Diet Coke out of the machine at 7:08 am.

I usually get a goodmorning from the few teachers who are there before me as I walk down the hall. Peyton often stops me to show me a new American girl outfit or a picture of her dog, Cooper. Bonnie hollers, "Goodmorning, Sunshine." Then Mary says "hola" and patiently listens as I share my lists of complaints and concerns.

In the bookstore, Ms. Anna saves the thumbtacks for me and never charges me for them. In the library, Amie writes my name in the schedule even though I'm suppose to know how to do it on the computer.

Schepman gives me a hug nearly everyday, whether I'm a willing participant or not.

Throughout the day, I get a hey from the cafeteria ladies, a smart remark from Ms. Sherry. Mr. Bill asks me what music I'm listening to as he sweeps my floor at the end of the day. Ms. Kathy threatens to shake her can of coins at me if I get in her way while she cleans.

One of the PTA ladies asks me almost weekly if I'll be teaching 5th grade two years from now.

I try to go to Pam's kindergarten room to get my fix on hugs and check in with her. Of course, I check in with the Dixie Chicks plus one who are now first graders in Ms. Griffin's room. Ethan, from the autism unit, yells my name and shakes my hand.

On my way out, I tease Leah and Lauren about their bulletin boards. I really should tell them that they are actually great teachers, especially since I think they are about 12 years old.

Lori looks the other way when I'm wearing jeans, and she gives me a fairly free rein when it comes to my teaching techniques.

Even the couple of people I'm not particularly fond of stay out of my way, for which I'm extremely thankful.

Anyway, I've got a sweet gig. I'm thankful to all of you who make it that way.

Angela

The Ninth Day of Lent (posted on the tenth day of lent)

Dear Milla,

It's hard for me to believe that you are seven years old. It seems like yesterday that your Grandmom was waiting for you to be born. In that seven years, you've been a ton of fun.

We've played quite a few games, but I have never managed to win. My particular favorite has always been Mother May I, and I'm beginning to think that maybe the games are fixed, since Grandmom always seems to win at the last possible minute.

I also remember when you asked me when Cassie's wedding would finally be over. . . you were 3 1/2 and it had been a long mass. I whispered that it would be over when Cassie and Zac kissed each other. You answered matter-of-factly that you had already seen them kiss at Grandmom's. Made sense to me.

You also saved Rufus the cat by yelling to all of us that he needed to rescued as he sat on the edge of the toilet trying to drink from the bowl. We've played on playgrounds and at McDonald's. I've even sung the Cougar Song and said the pledge when we played school and you got to be the teacher.

Once, when I was hanging out with you, Jax and Cate, Cate asked you if I was your friend. You told her, "No, she's my Angela." The way you said it made me feel somehow that being your Angela was even better than being your friend.

This week you gave me a letter you had written in the writing center of your first grade classroom. It read, "Dear Ms. Collins" (you are fascinated with the fact that at school I have a completely different name), . .. "Dear Ms. Collins, You are the best Angela ever." I'm going to hang on to that letter.

It reminded me that while I have been trying to be the best mom, the best daughter, the best friend, the best teacher, that perhaps I have actually begun to be the best Angela ever. That should have been my goal all along.

Thanks for the lesson.
I love you.
Angela

The Eighth Day of Lent

Dear Mrs. Mueller,

I just finished today's crossword puzzle in the newspaper and realized that I needed to write my lenten letter. As I put the newspaper down, it took me about 2 seconds to realize who I would be writing to.

As a kid at 3rd District School in Covington, you were the first and only adult I ever saw do a crossword puzzle in the paper. I would sit in the back of your library hiding in a little closet door that was located under your desk area while you ate your lunch and did the puzzle. You were also known to sneak a cigarette at the same time every now and then.

Anyway, back then I would sometimes look at the clues in the puzzle and be completely amazed that you could make any sense from them. You told me to look for patterns; you also told me it would come with age. You said that my continued reading would be a huge asset to my future puzzle solving abilities. You said those things with a straight face to an 8 year old kid.

Forty years later, I'm not too terribly bad at crossword puzzles; I'm certainly not at the New York Times level, but I'm good enough to enjoy doing them. Actually, I love doing them because I loved you and you loved doing them.

You were probably the first person outside of my family that told me I was different. You told me I could be anything, and I believed you.

You were also the first woman I knew who didn't apologize for who she was. You were a librarian in an elementary school, who was divorced, addicted to cigarettes and enjoyed a drink every now and then. I don't think you went to church and I'm  sure I heard you say a few cuss words. I probably should have been praying for you, but you seemed cool with who you were, so I kept you off the prayer list.

I remember telling you once that I was sorry you were divorced. With a quick snap of the paper (finding the crossword puzzle, I'm sure), you said "Don't be sorry for me; it was clearly his loss." And then you laughed. I liked the way you laughed.

So, I've been a teacher for awhile now and sometimes at faculty meetings or professional development sessions the facilitator will ask us to think of our favorite teacher from our own elementary years. I always think of you, how you made me feel capable, how you trusted me with knowing who you really were, how you loved me.

I try to show up in my classroom everyday simply as myself, in honor of you. You taught me that is more than enough.

Thank you.
Love, Angela

The Seventh Day of Lent

Dear Grace,

You often find a spot in my conversations and writing. I share pictures and videos of you with my kids at school. I greet you with "Hey, Puppy!" in the morning and "Sleep well" at night. I even tell you to have a good day when I leave for work each morning. A lot of people would think I'm crazy, and they are probably right. I do think this kind of crazy is more fun than other crazies I've experienced.

So, I think you are definitely in line for a lenten letter.

I can't imagine a companion more compassionate and eager to walk the extra mile (literally) even in the pouring rain and freezing temperatures. You're always ready for a belly rub or more than willing to give kisses, even when I don't ask. And, boy, are you patient. . . you wait for me everywhere, always looking as if you knew I would come.

 You are faithful and loyal. No matter where you are or how much fun you are having, you always come home with me.

You listen to my complaints and my jokes. You don't think I'm crazy if I catch myself talking to the tv. You growl at people who seem angry with me or raise their voice at me. You also make sure that all crumbs are picked up off the floor.

When I adopted you almost 2 years ago, I knew for sure that you would be fun and that you would keep me company. I never dreamed you would be such an important part of my sanity, a full-fledged member of my family.

You became my mark on the timeline. . . you know like B.C. and A.D. or before the twins and after the twins. My life is now divided up into "before Grace" and "after Grace." And, one thing I know for sure is that the "after Grace" time period in my life also coincides with "the sweetest" part of my life.

Thank you.
I love you.
Mom

The Sixth Day of Lent

Dear George Ella,

We're not exactly best friends or anything, I realize. In fact, you probably wouldn't  even recognize my name without the story of my 5th grade class and their social activism against Mountain Top Removal in 2007-08.

 Before that school year, I had met you a couple of times at book signings and writing workshops.

I've been reading your books for the last 20 years, and some of my sweetest memories of my youngest son, Will, was reading Who Came Down That Road? every night for what seemed like months.  (He is certainly a creature of habit, even at 22 years old, but he also new good literature when he was a little boy.) Carly, Will's twin sister, took Come A Tide to bed with her during that same time.

Like you, I've been influenced by countless authors over the years, but you were the first "real" author that I ever met that proudly claimed Kentucky and eastern Kentucky, in particular, as home. The voice in your books actually sounded like people I loved. People that I was not as proud of as I should have been, until I met you.

Through your words, I learned that the stories of my family were to be honored and treasured, and that just because their accent and words might be different from mainstream literature, in reality, their uniqueness made them all the more interesting.

As a young woman, I learned to claim my heritage and culture, not deny it or belittle it, from you. I used to be ashamed of my roots, but now they are the greatest inheritance I can leave to my own children.

Thank you for being a voice for a group of people who are often forgotten. You have helped to preserve the traditions and experiences of Kentucky Appalachians by choosing their children as your audience in many of your books.

Thank you, too, for standing up for what is right, if not popular, in preserving the land and mountains that we are so blessed to claim as our own.

You will always have a place on my bookshelf. . . and my heart.

Angela Collins

The Fifth Day of Lent

Dear Cathy,

You have been my dearest friend for the last ten years, and I'm not sure what I would do without you. You've had my back in every situation, including seeing my kids through high school without any jail time.

Seriously, though, you stood by me, or should I say, you paced back and forth and talked non-stop, when every other sane woman would have left me to self-destruct. Most importantly, you broke the secret code of depression and anorexia and did what you had threatened to do all along. . . you told my mom!
Truthfully, that was the best act of treason that a friend has ever committed.

I know we're not much on hugs and I love you's. We'd both rather make a joke in a bad situation or just pretend that there isn't a problem, but I seriously love you. I hope that you know that I also have your back, and I refuse to let anyone talk about you when you're not in the room. Well, most of the time.

I'm looking forward to more movies, meals, roadtrips and flea markets. You are truly one of a kind, and I thank God each day for your presence in my life.

Angela