A poem for Easter. A break from the norm with some simple rhyming, and also a break from the norm because I try not to do holiday poems but whatever. I feel what I feel. I do what I want.
Hours in Eternity April 16, 2017
Darkness willows down
and settles itself
like a cape of cloud
unsettling all else.
The sycamore tree
where you redeemed
a man shrouded
by his greed
trembles and fades
in shadows now
as thunder breaks
the sky aloud.
You are the one
we've waited for
to fight the darkness
and win the war.
And long ago
when you lived
among the dust
only to give
away your life
we couldn't know
what waiting still
you would bestow.
This blackest night
after death's display
calmed the hate
once set ablaze.
Your followers
fell in despair
believing you had
abandoned them there.
And in your time
they waited one day
while here and now
we still wait and pray.
But these are hours
in eternity,
in time you've claimed
to set us free.
Kept in darkness
I watch and wait
holding the hope
you illustrate,
and knowing forever
I would wait for you,
even without knowing
when the light shines through.
A Contender September 27, 2016
Here, absolved with shadows,
I will stand my ground and demand
to see you eye to eye.
We are not equals,
but I will fight.
Make me a contender.
Let me hold the weapons
you will only destroy.
Raise me up with valor
which you will only crush.
Allow me a moment
to look you in the face
and hope I might have a chance
at some small victory.
Fight me until I am weak.
Strike me until I am bruised.
Love me enough
to break me
so that I can rebuild.
Vicious Grace December 7, 2016
Belief has given power
where none was found
or could be made,
and we hold it at arm’s length,
pausing to receive
a gentler truth
we might pass on.
But there is still
grief in this voice
and there is still
anger waiting in the dark
and still
a vicious grace.
It comes out in all our words,
it blinds the weak
and rattles nerves,
and still for all our trembling
and that which we give away,
written in dusty margins
or tucked in a lover’s coat pocket,
Over and over, with and without coffee, in the sunshine or the nighttime, I have tried.
Come, lord Jesus,
I have tried.
And the feelings come out but the words stay put, like there's nothing I could possibly say that would be considered an honest expression, or that would do justice to what I'm trying to convey. But I'll give it my best shot.
A year ago I was the most depressed I have been in many years. It is something I've dealt with for fifteen years this September, the worst of which was 2007-2008, with last winter in a close second. I've been considering that time in my life frequently because I'm approaching an interesting milestone: an entire year of being on antidepressant medication.
Things have been going well. I will spare you the details of an entire year, for the sake of clarity and to save time, but believe me when I say that things have been going well.
I started listening to Christmas music on December 1st, but in the heat of the moment I forgot about that one song. And of course I was driving, over that exact same bridge, and in a flood of cold air and warbling voices I remembered last year.
Last year. Now my heart is / Returned to sister winter / Now my heart is / As cold as ice. Those lyrics washed over me and through me for an entire week, an entire year ago, and I drove over that bridge day after day and fought the urge with every breath not to drive off the bridge. A year ago, listening to the same angsty lyrics on repeat somehow helped me not careen into oncoming traffic, while also reminding me how badly I wanted to do just that.
Sure, it all sounds so dramatic now. But I said it then, and I'll say it now. As a teenager, I knew I could be overreacting simply because I was young and my emotions were often overwhelming. As an adult, with every imaginable support available, those feelings cannot be dismissed so easily.
And last year, in the midst of all that, I apologized. I said I was sorry for my behavior, although not for my feelings, because I didn't know how to handle myself. I spent so many years fighting these neurotic impulses, charging against my heart's desires to seek revenge or manipulate people or feign politeness just to be liked. I fought, and I lost, over and over. I was a sorry loser.
But now I'm done apologizing.
You see, before, I was fighting myself. I was fighting my dark side, the part of me that is vindictive and bitter and false. This is a part of all of us, it's human nature, but it is not always so loud.
I am no longer fighting myself. The darkest part of me still exists but it does not drown out all the other voices. Rather than a fight between my dark desires or good intentions, I am simply fighting for the truth. I am capable of sitting still and asking myself if my feelings are based on reality or fiction. I am capable of praying calmly at any time of day instead of screaming and crying to God because every moment is one of desperation.
So I can apologize for myself beforehand. I was not trying my best to be my best, was not trying to honor God with my life, because I spent all of my energy simply trying to be.
In the aftermath, in my medicated life, I don't apologize--at least, I don't apologize for trying.
Some days I wake up and everything is fine. I am motivated. I don't have a headache. I go to work or go to the store and buy groceries, and I wake up after the first alarm and leaving the house doesn't require any mental exertion.
Other days it's more difficult. My medication often causes horrific nightmares, insomnia, or can make it nearly impossible for me to wake up. Sometimes I experience all three of those in one day. The nightmares can be especially difficult to shake off because they are very realistic, and thus waking up becomes work. I have to force myself out of bed, I have to pray for a forgetful mind in order to move on with my day, and at that point I have already lost time and must prepare for the potential anxiety of being late for events and the mental sluggishness I'll have later and of course... my favorite thing... trying to figure out how I'll explain my behavior to people.
How does an adult woman explain that she's late for church because she had a nightmare?
This is often the hardest part. Some people already know. Some friends understand my code words, the phrases that indicate I have recently struggled and need time to recuperate. However, there are still many who apparently don't get it --people who are insensitive to depression, don't understand it, and would respond badly if I said I was struggling.
And the truth is, I shouldn't even feel like I need to explain it to everyone. If I'm late for something, I shouldn't have to explain last night's terrible nightmare just so you won't think I'm lazy. If I bail on a responsibility (a decision that I do not make without a lot of thought), I shouldn't be afraid someone will chastise me publicly, or compare me to others.
When you dismiss my fears, when you call my trials "inconveniences," when you tell me other people are capable and they "have it worse," you are dismissing my entire journey. You are dismissing an entire year of trying to be the best of myself and managing the symptoms and side effects and using all my coping mechanisms. You are saying my attempts don't matter.
But even when I fail, because I fail often, my attempts do matter. For all of the fights I have fought, it matters most now that I try and keep trying and that I don't give up.
I communicate my efforts so that you don't assume I am ignoring my responsibilities entirely. I ask for help when I need it (another milestone.) I try to be honest, so you'll know what's going on, so that despite my failure others still feel respected and appreciated. I control my impulses and try not to be reactionary, and I think long and hard about decisions that affect other people.
For instance, when I brought another Christmas album into the car, I wanted to throw out that other CD. I wanted to take the Sufjan Stevens mix and toss it out into the icy air. I wanted to drive over it and hear it crackle. I wanted to smash it on the bridge that tormented me.
However, I cannot give it that much power. I will not be satisfied by simply destroying the thing that kept my depression in perpetual motion. "Trying" means more than just attempting to ignore the places I have been, the person I have been. I have to replace the bad with good.
So... I'm done apologizing for trying.
I might say, "Sorry I'm late!" but I won't say, "Sorry, I had a bad morning," unless I feel like you're going to show me some compassion and listen to my story.
If I'm struggling, I may tell you, "I'm sorry, I can't meet tonight," but won't say, "I'm sorry for bailing tonight, I'm the worst friend ever." I will not be self-deprecating when I'm really just practicing good self-care.
And in the next few days I'll make a new Christmas CD and throw out the old one, because I've thought about it for a handful of days, and I won't apologize. I won't be sorry.
This was one of those "middle"-ing weeks, a seven-day stretch of less important things between more pressing matters. Last week was brimming with birthday activities for Joey, including a Star Wars marathon and a liquid cheese debacle (his idea, not mine) for the birthday nachos. And next week I have "the doctor's appointment."
I'll admit, it's been a strange and overwhelming week of waiting. I am comforted by long phone conversations and snuggles with my dog. I took one day and went into town while the husband worked so that I could have coffee with friends and browse some craft stores. I have rested my mind with documentaries, a piano app on my phone, and writing and writing and writing. I have done all this, and other meaningless things I can't recall or mention, in order to prepare and try to keep myself calm for the appointment on Tuesday.
But among all those things, attempts to find some sort of peace or at least anxiety-free moments, I found these videos.
The first one includes stories from three women who discovered, at varying stages in life and for various reasons, that they weren't able to have children. I resonated with all three of their stories, the mystery of not knowing why, the struggle of feeling like you can't offer to the world what you want to, and the decision to tell the world.
It's not easy to just come out and say it. I spent nearly a decade thinking I had PCOS, and I didn't say anything most of the time because I was ashamed. I'm sorry I didn't say something sooner, because I feel like it would have been even more of a victory when I finally realized I didn't have it.
In the second video a woman describes her experience with having a miscarriage. I have never been pregnant (yet!), nor have I had a miscarriage, but she also explained that she had a D&C (dilation & curettage). This is the same procedure I had during surgery back in February, and what happened to her only happens to about 1 in 500 women. However, the perspective is helpful--now you know what I was up against. The scarring from a mistake like that (you know, puncturing through someone's body) can lead to infertility.
While both videos were heartbreaking in their own right, and watching them could have led towards a depressed mindset, they were truly more beneficial than harmful. As I prepare for yet another uncomfortable and painful procedure next Tuesday, it is so good... so good to know that there are other people, other woman, with stories like mine.
It seems so odd that the appointment is finally here, and I still feel as if there is not enough time before it happens. It was the beginning of March when I went to see my oncologist for the first time, when I first started the drugs, when I stood in the waiting room and stared in befuddlement at the receptionist who said, "You need an appointment three months from now? Okay, let's see... July 28th." She handed me the little reminder card and I thought, I know I'm an English nerd and not a math genius, but this is almost five months away.
FYI, I just paused my writing to play with bubble wrap. This sort of thing also helps.
Often life hands us situations where we don't know what to expect. However, I find that those situations usually involve a handful of possible outcomes, perhaps a whole list of options for things that may or may not happen. Right now I don't have a handful of outcomes. I have two. I just don't know what they'll lead to.
They're going to do a biopsy. (When I say "a" biopsy, I really mean it's a singular experience, because there are actually about 6 biopsies taken.) I don't need to tell you I'm not looking forward to it, but I'll say it anyways. I'm really not looking forward to it. Once it's done, I'll wait a few days for the results.
Outcome #1: All the cancerous cells are gone!
Outcome #2: The cancerous cells are still here!
There is nothing in my mind or body that knows how to move forward from either of those circumstances. I think I know what the doctor's want, if all the cancer is gone. They want to put me on birth control (barf) for a few months and "see how that works." I am not on board with that plan and if I can conjure the courage I will tell them, with all the fierce facial expressions I can come up with, that I want to skip the birth control and get straight to the fertility drugs, since that's our end goal anyways.
I'm all about efficiency, you know.
But if the cancerous cells are not gone, and I don't know why they wouldn't be, I have absolutely no clue as to what the next step is. More of the same drugs? Higher doses? Different drugs? Something scary, like chemo? Something terrifying, like a hysterectomy?
These aren't things you can prepare for. I can barely prepare myself for the biopsy, something I'm already very familiar with.
So it essentially feels, all the time, like I'm waiting for something in order to wait for the next thing.
I'm waiting for Tuesday so I can go to the doctor and wait in the lobby, then wait uncomfortably on the table with the stupid paper towel blanket, then wait for the procedure to be over, then wait for the doctor to shut up and leave, and then wait for the results. And heaven knows once I get the results I'll have to wait for another appointment to figure out what we'll do next.
And whatever we do next, I'll have to "wait and see" if it works. Or doesn't.
Waiting is hard. Sometimes it's the hardest part of life. Sometimes it's the only thing you can hold on to--I don't know much, except that I'm waiting. I don't have what I want, but I'll keep waiting until I do. And most of the time we wait because we don't have a choice, or because choosing to wait is the right thing to do, even if it's the most difficult.
And while I'm waiting, while we wait together and work long hours and agonize over what will happen, we still have hope. We hope for and imagine the joyful sound of that bursting heartbeat, a reluctant first cry, tiny hands grasping for us, a pair of enormous blue eyes. While we wait, we hope, we walk aimlessly through the baby section at Target and sometimes it makes us sad... and sometimes (like yesterday morning) I walk through, proudly and courageously touching tiny baby shoes and admiring innovative baby toys, because my hope is bigger than my fear.
These are so many hopes and dreams rolled into one and it is the thing we strive for, regardless of how implausible it might seem. I hope for this and ask for what I want. I could simply ask for health. I could be waiting just to "get better." I could hope that my body would be healed and never expect more.
I'm scared, but not so scared that I'll hope for the lesser things. I'm brave enough to know what I want, and to ask for it, to really beg for it, brave enough to hope for it... because it makes the waiting easier.
If you are familiar with the story of Easter (or the trifecta of Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Resurrection Sunday) then you will hopefully find some meaning in this poem.
Treason - April 3, 2015
The final cost of our redemption speaks naught of our exemption or requirements never met even in the sacrifice of a lifetime, but rather waits in the silence between. Oh, that impossible distance!-- which grows in shadowed resistance for this one wretched day while we are the ashen mourners unsaved, unloved, unseen. And we shrink like withered seasons whose blooms gravely fade beyond reason for even the wind has grieved, even the earth cannot be still, even the sun is black with treason.
Five and a half years ago I met a really nice guy. He had, literally, the bluest eyes I'd ever seen and this adorable crooked smirk. He was really good with kids and animals and had such an upbeat attitude most of the time. He was just so nice. Such a nice guy.
And this was the summer I decided not to date anyone, or even think about dating anyone, or even become friends with boys. I'd just had my heart broken, so I swore I would not make the same mistake again so soon.
Oh well, right?
So I met this nice guy and we fell in love and two years after that we got married and now I'm living happily ever after with this really nice guy.
Except that he's not a nice guy.
It's not because he's the opposite of nice. It's just, I really hate the word nice. When I was teaching, I admonished every student that used "nice" as a descriptor. "Nice" has lost all meaning. Nice is boring, nice is simple, nice is uninspiring. There are so many more words that convey something deeper than "nice." So... no. My husband is not a nice guy. But he is a lot of other things. I am so thankful for my husband, and all of the not-nice things he is.
I am thankful that he is hilarious, because he loves making me laugh and finds humor in everything. I'm thankful that he's focused, and that (even if it takes a while for him to get started) once he gets into a task he doesn't stop until it's finished. I'm thankful that he is gentle and kindhearted, because it means even in our worst arguments he never aims to hurt me or cause me anxiety. It also means that when he apologizes, to me or other people, he is sincere. I'm thankful for his creativity, which allows him to do well at work but it also inspires me in my own creativity. I'm thankful that he's so ridiculously handsome, and that he has an awesome beard (because without it he looks like a twelve-year-old.) I'm thankful that he is faithful--not just to me, but to God. For underneath all the stress and fear caused by this world, he knows who to really trust and serve. I'm thankful that he is adventurous and isn't afraid to try new things with me. I'm thankful that he's extroverted and outgoing, because it takes a lot of the pressure off of me when we're in social situations. (Phew!) And I'm thankful that he loves me, and that despite my human-ness he chooses to love me every day.
I'm grateful that he's not nice, too. Thanks, husband. You're incredible. <3 p="">
Everybody makes mistakes. It's one of the purposes of this blog--to fully accept my failures, my blunders, my losses. Every body is a loser at some point (some more often than others) and so it's easy for people to connect to the concept. We all fail, we all mess up. Processing and healing (or letting go of) these things is easier if we can start by accepting that they happened.
I'm thinking about this because I totally messed up today. It wasn't anything too horrible, but it was pretty embarrassing. Today was a math day at kindergarten, and I'd been planning this awesome lesson. It's "Around the World" month, and this week we're in Mexico. All of that is beside the point, because I was going to teach them about "touch numbers," which is when each number has dots on it to help you count. I made a poster for the wall and bookmarks for each student. My co-teacher (an awesome undergrad student getting Service Learning credit) and I laminated everything right before class and they looked great.
So we taught the touch numbers, and the kids caught on pretty quickly. We had moved on to practicing counting +2 and +3 with dice when a student asked me, "Why do the numbers go five, seven, eight, nine? Where's six?"
My co-teacher looked at me and then we both looked at the bookmarks and, surprise! There was no six. I designed the poster over a week ago, and worked on the bookmarks all weekend. We had sat there, cutting out the bookmarks and then laminating them and cutting them out again from the laminating sheet AND doing that whole process over again because the papers moved inside the laminating machine and somehow... somehow... neither of us had noticed that there was no six.
I have nothing to blame it on except that I didn't notice it. I spent so much time lining up the stupid little dots that I inexplicably did not notice I was missing a number. There was no 0, or 10. I knew that. But no six? Completely escaped me.
Tonight I went and remade it all. Re-laminated everything. Placed it all nicely on top of the supply box. I sat in the dark office all alone, still bewildered at how I could have missed it.
But you know what makes everything better?
Several things. 1. The problem was easily fixed, and I can give them updated bookmarks tomorrow. 2. My students laughed it off with me. They didn't get upset, or say something mean. (They don't know how.) 3. It gave me the opportunity to be humble in front of my students, and to accept my mistake gracefully.
I am so thankful for mistakes. In a world where social media allows us to only ever show our good side, our triumphs and victories, our ever-impressive lives... it is good to be reminded of what we are. We're human. We are all sinners, all in need of a savior. We mess things up. We say hurtful words and think destructive thoughts, we judge and curse and condemn, we ignore and neglect and abuse, we deceive and cheat and manipulate. Sometimes our mistakes are small and we need comfort or affirmation, but sometimes they're big mistakes and we find ourselves in need of grace, forgiveness, and redemption. Our mistakes give us the space to need saving. It's okay to need saving, you know. It doesn't make you less of a woman or less of a man.
Many things divide your life into two halves. The time before you met your spouse, and the time after. The time before you lost that friend, and the time after. Before kids, after kids. Before getting that job, after having that job.
There has never been a time before stories. And there will never be a time after, for all of life is a story. The chapters change and the pages increase in number and spine becomes bent and cracked with age. But there is never after. It always is.
However, there was a time when I didn't know what stories meant to me.
Children who love books usually know they love books, but they don't know the power held in them--we can't all be Matilda Wormwood. Children who love books will cart them to and from the library in large stacks. They will have trouble on library day at school, because they can only check out two books at a time. They will sneak peeks into their parents' bookshelves and steal glances at books they're not mature enough to read. They will do all these things and find thrill in every moment without ever realizing that their love for books is actually a love of story, which is more than a hobby or pastime--it's the adventure of a lifetime.
This sort of adventurous love for story is a compulsion, a conviction, a belief. It is the belief that for every question the answer is a story. Every sorrow comforted, every wound healed, every mistake forgiven, and every joy affirmed by a story. Jesus himself used stories to express his love for people and carry out his mission. The Bible itself is a story of epic measurements.
And so we have this belief as children without knowing it, until one day we do. We know it. We feel it. We believe it.
During the year I decided I wanted to be a writer, I also realized how deeply I loved books. But even then it wasn't until later that I understood it was a love of story that really fueled my love for writing. And there was a difference in everything. My thinking change, my writing changed, my heart changed. The world looks different when you comprehend its story-ness.
Yesterday I was thankful for the stories of my childhood. Today I am thankful for the stories after childhood. I am thankful for the transformative power of a story, for the way they alter my way of thinking and the way I perceive the world. I am thankful for the depth added to books when we recognize a good story, and not just a plot or characters that are "interesting." I am thankful for the way stories engage us at every turn. I am thankful for the way stories allow us to connect with each other, regardless of the people we have been or the people we are or will be. I am thankful that stories follow us and shape us. I am thankful that stories can be uniters and changers and inspirers and convicters. I am thankful for the way faith in Jesus is so naturally shared by story. Most of all, I am thankful for who stories have made me--before I knew they were changing me, and after.
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