The Good Life Lie

This morning, or rather in the wee hours of this not so fine day, I tossed around with the beginnings of another headache.  Not a good time of course, with three little girls sleeping in the living room, needing to get ready and off to worship this morning. ‘Oh God, please no, not another one,’ I thought. 'This pain in my head and neck won't fit into today's schedule. Tommy will have to function on his own again…'

I slept off and on with the dreaded pain escalating to a full throttled migraine ‘till my alarm rang out its signal for me to get up. ‘No, this won’t do at all.’ I thought as I rolled over moaning with the need to vomit.  Old fears of ending up like my daddy, encapsulated within a body that won’t move, slithered back into my thoughts.  He’d had migraines too, most of my life, ‘till a massive stroke silenced the pain with a paralyzing blow to his brain.  And now I, feeling the throbbing in my head several times a month, worry that I’ll end up just like him.  No one really ever knew what happened that awful day, but suspected that recent migraines had been severe enough to cause spasms in his neck, temporarily blocking the blood flow through the vessels to his brain.

The phrase “the good life,” whatever that unattainable concept meant, rolled around in my head a few minutes ago, mocking me for my faith in God.  Where is this “good life,” Lord?  This life isn’t good.  The circumstances around me and the world are not good today.  Even with my complaining, I felt the Lord’s comfort resting there alongside my bruised faith and rumpled covers.  Prayers for my own pain relief soon led into prayers for so many others that have most likely been betrayed by the world’s advertisements for a “good life.”  Slide like pictures of them filed through my mind like movie clips without sound.  And so I prayed as they appeared, as if they were waiting in line with unanswered questions similar to mine.

Monique’s family…God please…minister to those remaining in absolute agony following her death only a week ago. Cancer and chemo had ripped away the last bits of her young life without mercy or thought to those left grieving. Now her husband, who had begged you for healing, is left to care for three young ones, all alone.

For Matt’s dad, who miraculously was brought back to life after weeks of existing in a state somewhere between the living and the dead. After a tremendous tug of war, the living won out and he was brought home. But not without sacrifice, and no where near completely healed.  Though thankful for his spared life, fear and anxiety remain behind as they face an unknown future.

Father God, for the families of our Kaufman County DA, his wife, and his assistant, gunned down just weeks ago…they are left with fear, anger, and unimaginable, heart- rending grief.  It sears clear through the children and friends, to the community left to seek justice from this senseless nightmare.

For my mom, Lord, who has gotten up each morning and gone to bed each night the last 28 years, feeling the full weight of responsibility for Daddy’s life within her hands.  Lord, her body and spirit are aching with fatigue from the load.

On and on the faces needing prayer came to mind till I believe God spoke clearly to my heart about some things.  I believe He let me know that the good life is not going to show itself within a trouble free existence.  It’s not a mirage of carefree, problem free, politically perfect, “I have everything I need to make me happy,” world. Somehow I need to reconcile the false belief that goodness and joy only follow after circumstances have adjusted to my liking. Believing in God and loving Jesus, don't provide stress free living, or steer me clear of the evil in this world.  "Goodness, or rather I," He said, "am found within the pain." 

Goodness was shown within the loving words spoken publicly by my heartbroken friends Karen and Merilee  during Monique’s funeral service yesterday. It bloomed within the ICU room of Matt’s dad, as many people praised God regardless of outcomes for his life. Goodness was found recently at the Kaufman court house  as people gathered around to pray not only for justice, but for salvation for those that killed Mark Hasse and the McClelland's.  And I too, experienced the good life just yesterday while pushing a grocery basket for my mom up and down the aisles of Brookshires, as she slowly filled her basket with items needed for the week. 

Yes, I believe God is telling me that the good life is possible. There's goodness in knowing Jesus is lying down beside me during a migraine, or even paralysis should that happen later on.  There was goodness in Tommy’s quiet service this morning as he got the kids ready for church without my help. It was shown while Andrew played his guitar during worship last Sunday morning. Instead of giving up, he’s graciously allowed God to lead him around his disease, without bitterness for what was lost. The “experience of goodness” that we all seek, is an intangible attitude about life that will allow Monique’s husband, with God’s help, to raise his young family without their mom. It will allow Matt’s dad to thrive in spirit and his mom to provide needed care no matter what level of health he achieves.

I’m thinking that having a “good life” isn’t going to just appear after things in life have gone my way. It’s not something to hope for with job promotions, retirement plans, or even healing of those I love.  It’s not meant to wait ‘till after the funeral is over, or when the killer is brought to justice, or after my abusers have confessed their sins against me. It isn’t something to anticipate in the future when such and so happens.  It's born in the present, from an attitude of acceptance of life as we know it.  It entails “seeing” the beauty of God’s spirit living, breathing, and reproducing unexplained joy, peace, and hope around, through, and in spite of the present circumstances we now find ourselves in.  

On Strike Till Further Notice

I need to write so badly Lord…please give me words so that I can empty my soul of the emotional turmoil that binds me like a strait jacket.  My world is a blur such that I think I just numbed out yesterday.  My body is still doing all the motions, my mouth speaks words that make the outside appear to be functioning.   But inside is reality. Inside there is chaos and fear.  Inside my mind is a whirl wind, no, more like a tornado, of thoughts that are exploding.

It’s odd how you start your week with a plan or at least an inkling of what is or should be.  I ask my Father for direction, courage, and strength to do what He’d have me to do, with grace. But this body and mind He’s provided to “do”, has done give out.

The list of needs for Tommy’s mom and my parents multiplies with each passing year…but so do the needs of our children.  I’ve long given up on “me time” or “Tommy time.”  That’s not even an option this week or even this year.  I waved my white flag, surrendering non-existing rights to God and said, “use me.”  But today I’m at a loss of how to continue.  It seems that by the end of each day, Tommy and I’ve patched up as many leaky holes as we can, but waking up today I can’t face any more. Even with each child and parent seemingly waiting patiently, there is only so long one can push back a building flood behind the dam.  Until something or someone, cracks.

Despite getting dad a home physician, he has four specialist visits planned over the next few weeks, colostomy surgeon, urologist, ear nose and throat doctor, kidney doctor, Mom can no longer take him on her own. Her aide can help some, but that costs more money, which mom wisely tries to conserve. Plus my pride and need to be there for her, kicks and screams in tantrum at the reality that the aide now spends more time now with my parents than I.  She has become a part of their daily life and their dependence on her grows equal to my increasing absence to physically help them.  That in itself has pierced me clean through.

Mom has her own waiting list of things that need attention that will likely not happen.  But it’s not just the physical time required to take care of my parents, but the decision making, planning, and tremendous emotional support that they need. It feels like they're within inches of having everything we’ve juggled since daddy’s stroke nearly 30 years ago, come crashing into a big heap at the door of the local nursing home. And no one wants that.  It would be the end of both of them.

Tommy’s mom who has managed this last year with such beauty and grace, has a lot of needs too.  I’ve wanted to step in and help with the last years of her life. We promised to take care of her after his dad died last year.  Her eye surgery this week and the care she needed afterwards required a sacrifice of time, love, and physical help.  I was thrilled to be able to finally do something for her after all these years.  But in getting closer to her emotionally, I saw so much more that could be done to make her life better. There is only so much Tommy’s brother can do on his own.  She has spent her entire life serving others and its time to give back.

After being allowed to patch a few leaky holes this week for her, I turned around and saw many more within my children’s lives that were begging attention. Home schooling,  two doctor visits for Andrew plus getting Endocrine lab work that was five weeks late, STARR Testing trips to Dallas, camp counselor with Lydia next week, Luke’s upcoming musical in May, costumes for the Hunger Games senior banquet at church....its only the beginning. Schedules dance in my head long after bedtime screaming for attention from my brain and leaving migraines to deal with in the morning.  Add in my hot flashes, irritability, and poor sleeping that signal menopause and OMG, I’m forgetting bits and pieces of nearly everything, leaving puddle-like trails of half-fulfilled results that please no one.

And money, always money, there isn’t enough to cover anything.  So we throw a little in too many directions and cover the rest with plastic credit and prayers.  Yesterday, after I’d mistakenly left some of Tommy’s mom’s luggage back at our house, I thought I couldn’t handle one more crisis.  But alas, we weren’t finished yet.  An angry outburst from one member of the family resulted in the destruction of Andrew’s school lap top.  What do you do?  We used it as a teaching lesson on anger management and forgiveness…a very expensive lesson. I was proud of all involved after the flames died out.  Satan’s schemes got turned into a priceless picture of grace.  Though love and forgiveness may have fixed feelings, we were still left with another leaking hole.

Feeling a sensation of drowning, I crashed into bed with a couple of Benadryl for sleep; hearing in my head that regardless of all my efforts to make a difference, nothing had been done well, wrapped up neatly, and finished.  After crying a bit, I swore I was going to stay in bed today, on strike till further notice.

Monotonous Monday Treasure

Monday morning monotony taunted me from the kitchen counters littered with dishes.  Where did they come from?  I cleaned late last night and still they multiplied while I slept as if mocking my efforts to bring order to our home. Laundry piles were permanently scattered along the length of my bathroom floor, becoming the last pit stop, a loading dock of sorts, prior to entry into the waiting machines.

This morning I kicked aside an anonymous pair of dirty socks and jeans pealed off inside out and left in the floor.  Who cares that “someone” would have to turn them prior to washing. Next I moved aside my "Midnight Muncher’s" crusting dishes left in the living room, and began the task of making breakfast and school lunches…once again. “Lord, show me the beauty in all of this, please.”

I stole a few inopportune moments to flee the ever waiting mess in exchange for a walk.  The grey, drizzling rain matched my mood.  Wondering how I’d manage to face the day ahead, I prayed, or rather mumbled my complaints out loud to whoever might be listening. “I know there is beauty beneath the rubble; I just can’t see it clearly, God."  Then I remembered Friday’s adventure with Lydia.

She’d wanted to begin reading a new book series so I’d suggested an ancient set of books I’d loved as a child, Cherry Ames.  There must have been 20 or so books written about a 1950’s nurse carrying out her  duties and amateur sleuthing escapades all over the world.  I became convinced this collection was stuffed away in some corner of my mom’s attic.  After saying as much to Lydia, she became obsessed with going on a treasure hunt of her own to solve our mystery of the missing books.  Friday finally arrived, and with it, her much anticipated chance to canvas Mom’s old attic.  I’ll admit, I too had visions of finding priceless treasures from my past.

Step, step, step the three of us ascended the attic stairs; my 75 year old mom first with Lydia following close behind.  We put on dust masks at her insistence, and carried a little lamp to light our way.  The dirt was everywhere, literally layers of it settled into boxes rising up like smoke when disturbed.  We must have opened seven to eight boxes, but sadly, never found the lost books.

There were containers full of old rat eaten teddy bears, dirt smudged dolls with homemade clothes, an old Barbie styling head, and broken bits of who knows what…but nothing that resembled anything of value, at least not to me. I could tell Lydia was disappointed too, but not Mom.  She came to life, dropping years off her tired face as she rummaged through old “keepsakes”.  Climbing over ancient suitcases, stacked boxes, and air vent tubing, she was persistent to keep going while making the comment, “Oh, you’d be surprised what I can do!”  She made me smile.  Poking and prodding, I heard her explaining the history of many things to Lydia… a table Daddy had made, a suit case I’d taken to camp as a child…

A little mouse with a long tail scurried away in the corner.  It had nothing to do with the past and was distracting me enough that I edged us back out of the creepy crevices toward the stairs.  I was more than ready to leave.  Yuck!  Covered in dirt, I’d found nothing of value.  That is until I looked up to see Mom taking one last longing glance at a box of dried miscellaneous flower corsages left over from my special occasions. I saw her eyes come to life and perhaps even a smile on her face.  She was…happy?

I hadn’t seen any treasure amidst the dirt and rat infested old boxes.  I hadn’t found what I’d come for, the books.  But mother…seeing her made me think.  She’d looked beyond the years of accumulated dirt and disorganized piling of their old junk, to see something much more valuable than order, cleanliness and belongings.  She’d climbed into the attic back in time to an older life.  Opening a window into her past, she’d glimpsed a memory of joy.

I believe it was this that the Lord showed me in and around my mutterings of dread for today. Blow off the dust, Kerrie, like your mom was able to do.  Look past the piles of dirty clothes and ignore the daunting stacks of dishes.  Perhaps then you’ll see an abundance of Monotonous Monday, attic full of messy memories, now in the making. 

To Do Or Not To Do

During this season of Lent, I've felt the need to detoxify from Facebook and Photoshop, both culprits that have recently been gouging massive chunks out of me. Their subtle lure has been an enticing and socially acceptable means of escaping my “to do” filled life. Each day I’ve hoped to finish an over flowing list of needs while still finding time for myself. Although I don’t have a ready bucket list waiting to put into action, I’m sure I could come up with something. However, the sun sets in the evening, and with it, any chance of "me" time. I finish the day only to fall into bed, sleep, and wake up to more racing throughout the day. Like the descent of dense grey fog, a very sobering thought has settled itself into my consciousness these last few weeks… ‘I WILL NEVER BE FINISHED!’

And so breeds resentment and frustration, which are nice words for passive anger that stews and simmers unbeknownst by me. The poisonous mixture seeps into my thoughts, leaving behind the stench of discontented complaining… like a virus really, contaminating the good and obscuring the sweetness that I know still lives beneath monotonous days.

The idea that I could control some part of my day has become an unattainable luxury, a mirage of hope that’s vanished with the coming-of-the-fog. So I’ve found myself lost in cyber world, often oblivious to the need to fix dinner, tuck kids into bed, begin school in the morning…sometimes I just don’t give a care so I escape. But just like any drug of choice, the high I get from it crashes quickly into a reality of laundry, dishes, school, and parent needs.  There are no Facebook fairies to magically wave the daily duties away while I vegetate online, and I can’t Photoshop away all of life’s blemishes. Nope, it’s all there waiting for me, but with less time than earlier to complete, and lots more agitation with everything and everyone, including myself.

The detoxification process has been painful the last few days, leaving me with loneliness and a longing for something.  I’ve spent more time reading in the Bible though, and praying, asking God to draw close while I lay down the cyber crutches. The Lord has reminded me that I do have choices in each day, to kick and scream like a two year old, or to display a spirit of submission to His plans. Although my two year old is usually the first responder, a  more mature and Christ-like spirit says, "Yes, Lord; I’ll go where you lead."

So was my state when I went to see the dentist on Wednesday. After telling me I needed a couple of crowns in the next few months, he talked to me about his dad who had been put in the hospital last week.  His parents and mine have known each other since...before I was born.  After telling mom about it, we decided to get them up to the hospital to see their old friend.  It wasn’t convenient to leave in the middle of Lydia’s and Andrew’s lessons on Friday, and it took a good bit of effort from mother to get them dressed, in the car, and over to my house. Mom’s always had a saying that sometimes you just “do”.  You do what has to be done when it’s important and then deal with any fall out later. We determined that this was one such important time, to lay aside any practicality and “just do.” So we didJ

Minus my GPS, I managed to drive mom and dad's 15 year old car to the unfamiliar hospital and park in a handicapped place. After we slowly extracted daddy out of the car and deposited him into his chair, I wheeled him up to the rehab unit where their friend was recuperating. I stopped myself from smarting off to the nice aide behind the desk when she asked sweetly if I was bringing Daddy in as a new patient.  Thankfully, she couldn’t hear my not so nice thoughts. 

‘No he isn’t new, he’s 80 years old and he isn’t patient at all lately. You really don’t want him here. He’s got an attitude and has spent enough time in rehabs over the last 27 years that he’d think he was qualified to run this place. Yes, he may look like he needs rehab, but as bad as he looks, it’s as good as it’s gonna get missy, but, thanks for asking.’

We found their friend dining in the sun room and parked dad next to him.  It made me sad, to watch mom and dad with him, thinking about all they’d been through the last 48 years together. There they were,  not in a deacon's or elder's meeting as in an earlier life, but parked side by side in wheelchairs swapping rehab stories. While Lydia and I waited patiently, it occurred to me that I was sitting in the presence of three inspiring warriors; warriors that had never given up; Godly people that have kept going although their current circumstances didn’t reflect any semblance of what they might have wanted.

   

Soon it was time to leave. The efforts to transfer dad back into the car were just as tedious, but we eventually buckled everyone back in safely and headed east. As I wove in and out of busy I635 traffic, I felt a tremendous weight of responsibility, more than I thought I could handle. To the right was my paralyzed dad, towel in lap, trying to eat a burger with one hand.  In the back was mom, newly diagnosed with two leaky heart valves-- full of child-like trust that I’d get them home without a hitch.  And Lydia…my little 10 year old trooper has grown up sharing her mom with others. She still had lessons to finish out the week.  'Lord,’ I thought, ‘I can’t finish this life!  I’m not qualified and I’m overwhelmed right now. What are you thinking about?’

Glancing back at mom though, I was reminded of the previous Wednesday that I’d come over after seeing my dentist. She had greeted me with a huge blessing. Short on money, time, and energy, I’d committed to too many things again and couldn’t get it all done.  She had managed to go to the store and bank for me and put together a very organized sack full of cards, cash, and candy for the kids Valentines’ Day. It had saved me hours that I’d not had to spare. But more than time was this amazing blessing of having my mother still in my life, loving me, believing in me, and taking care of me as her daughter.

 

After thanking her a few times, she hugged me tightly and said, “Kerrie, we do what we have to do because it’s what we’ve been given. The only choice we have is in how we respond to what comes our way.  We’re a team you and I, and it will work out.” Then she said, “I’m so thankful I was able to help you today.”

With mom’s recent diagnosis of heart trouble, I know the ebbing and flowing of our relationship of mom and daughter will continue to shift, settle, and then shift again. My prayer is that during this Lent season that God can show me the beauty of service as I’ve seen in the lives of those three warriors. That I’ll lay down fear and resentment, and like mom, embrace the love of “doing” in such a way that blesses all those precious souls that God has entrusted into my care.  

                                                    

Ready or Not, Here I Come!

I looked at my empty pill compartment last week. It was time to fill the tiny cubicles with my daily supplements, mostly a mix of over-the-counter vitamins, fish oil, minerals....all except my anti-depressant. That little spherical substance has had me in a love - hate relationship for years. Although I detested becoming a repeat user of psychiatric meds, I was relieved and indebted to my doctor for prescribing it after Andrew was diagnosed with FSGS. And as expected, that tiny pill balanced me out within a few weeks, lifting a suffocating curtain of darkness. 

 

It’s been nearly three years since I began swallowing my daily mental health allotment. I’ve recently felt called, though, to exchange its crutch-like influence for total dependence on my Father. Ready or not, I wanted to throw aside my cane and hear my Papa say..."Get up and walk, girl, your faith has made you well.” I’ll not lie though. My rational side has spewed forth logical excuses for not releasing me in absolute abandonment to His healing.

 

The miracle I’ve experience on my lower back, however, has encouraged me. Recently, I’ve heard Him whisper to me in the early dark mornings, “Run, Kerrie, run!” Even today, I broke loose during my time outside. What an experience to jog down the street without wincing in pain, or merely limping along on the worst of days.

Now, I want to close my eyes to the rational once more, to experience His healing power over my depression.  It's not an easy thing for me to let go of the pills that’ve worked to stabilize me from landing in a permanent pit of despair. I’ve been reasoning though, if he's relieved back spasms and swelling, then surely He's able to fix the chemical imbalances in my weary, emotionally spent brain.  

But this isn’t merely about giving up prescriptions. I just long for more, that’s all...more of Him and of opportunities to walk out a life of faith, hand in hand with the Greatest Healer ever known. My heart cries out,  'Here I come, Papa!  Watch me straddle the edge of this old raft, balancing one foot down, with the other poised and ready to sprint across the waves to you!' Soon, I hope to see a vacant pill compartment on my counter and an abandoned raft drifting past shores of doubt.

Reporting for Duty

After my recent experience with the neighbor, I felt vulnerable, betrayed, and rather angry.  I felt like someone had just gouged another rut in my abusive past, and I wanted to lash out with a whip.  But after going to hear Todd White speak, I think God broke through with quite a revelation for me to simmer on.

 

Going to war against my accuser satan, might look a bit different than I’d earlier thought. Todd kept talking about keeping my eyes focused on my Father. If I did that, then the His love would readily flow into my daily actions towards others. He mentioned several times about loving the Lord with all my heart, soul, mind and strength, and loving my neighbor as myself. What better way to deal with my old enemy than to turn what he’d meant to crater me, into victory for God? At one point I felt His eyes piercing through the crowded room engaging mine…as if God was sending me a direct message through this humble prophet… ‘Kerrie, if you wanna get back at satan, love your neighbor.’

All this got me to think’in. What if being a shield holding warrior for the Lord means something other than using force as in spears or violence.  What if God’s weapon of choice, post Old Testament with coming of Jesus, is love, healing, restoration…gifts that flow out of a spirit led life in such a way that we're a pure reflection of our Lord? Those are tactics that Satan can’t touch, because he's got no defense against that which he doesn’t understand. He’ll never win against spiritual gifts that come from knowing God intimately. What that love looks like or how the war plays out in my life, I’m not sure.  Except that if I cling so closely to Him in my worship each day, then I should be confident that He will be represented, not me.

I’ve been asking God to show me how to listen to Him. I know He speaks ‘cause I’ve heard Him many times.  But that means being intentionally still to hear...while I’m reading the Bible, praising in song, crying out in prayer. I believe that’s the heart of why I am compelled to write; to be an out pouring of God, whose essence is temporarily molded into words that I’m confident He’ll supply. If it’s from Him, then He’ll give me the courage to be transparent in sharing those thoughts with others.

 

It’s not about me, appearances, or opinions from other folks. It’s not about Likes on FB, comments left on a particular post, or seeking admiration.  It’s about allowing His image to be paved over past ruts 'n pot holes that no longer define me. It's about honoring God.

I have an impending sense that time is short, maybe my personal time on earth, or maybe the end of time as we all know it.  But regardless, this princess warrior is answering His call and reporting for duty.