I take breaks from really talking to God, from time to time. They're not intentional, or not completely I guess. I had this revelation of sorts, recently, that I sometimes do not address the things on my heart with God, as a coping mechanism to protect myself from feeling. I am an individual with a lot of feelings, and subtly or otherwise, people who don't feel all the feels (as the kids say these days) have treated me like some basket case. It has taken me a lot of time and conscious self-assurance to undo those lies, partially in realizing that to willingly face vulnerability is a strength. Even still, I backslide from time to time, and there are areas where I have taught myself to close off, in the name of self-preservation.
My grandpa was admitted to the hospital on Monday for a small stroke. Being my only living grandpa (married to my only living grandma), I've never experienced anything like this with a close relative. I found myself a little shaken to know that he felt confused and simply "lost" some things from his memory bank, like how to tie his shoes, or my mother's name. Startling, is the best-suited word I've found; it's startling. I continued my workday after the call, because otherwise I probably would've cried at work and felt embarrassed to have feelings. If I'm being really honest, that's what it was.
I waited at my parents' house for my mom to come home that night, I was worried she'd be upset. I discovered where I get my "in-charge" mode from. She said it's not that she doesn't have emotions about it, but things have to get done, too. I was upset, and of course saved it all for the person I trust most. No one has ever seen me a bigger mess than my mother, partially just because she's my mom, and partially because she would never even think to judge me for being too emotional. (Reference here: My Mother the Saint) She let me wrap my arms around her and cry. After she somehow graciously inquired as to my turbulence, I took a deep breath mixed with a sigh and said, "Being empathetic sucks," as we had a laugh. Then she said, "It's great," in that affirming way you'd hope a mother would, but of course mine really, extra means it.
Somewhere along the line, I adopted the idea that emotions are weak. In between trying to find a balance of vulnerability, I bought into crying being embarrassing. Further than that, I started not bringing those feelings to God. It's almost like I decided that if I ignore the way I was made, stuff all those nasty little buggers down into my stomach in the form of knots and up into my head as aches, the things that I feel won't feel. A twisted, self-designed, unconscious but fear-based coping mechanism to being empathetic.
Being empathetic does suck, and it is great. Sometimes when I think about it, I'm convinced it's a form of torture. I've been known to cry as much or more than someone who's actually going through the thing I'm hearing about. And I absolutely can't help it, because I just feel it, deeply. At some point, it became worth it to me to begin ignoring that in me and quit caring - and that sucks!
Thankfully when you're prone to feeling lots of things about lots of things, you can't just turn it off. I say "thankfully" because I know that's how I was designed.
Somewhat consciously, I've also been avoiding taking the hard things back to God in fear that I will only revel in what I feel and not see any change. It's like God has made me able to feel all the difficult things, to the extent that they might as well be happening to me, and then nothing. And it's scary; risky, rather, to put one's heart on the line with God. I know better than to give Him the silent treatment, because all along He quietly beckons as a listening ear and place of comfort. So what have I been waiting for?
It's easy to avoid God, but it doesn't make things any easier. A lesson I think I'm learning. If the Creator of the universe and He who authored selfless Grace and bestowed Mercy, is waiting to hear my heart, how could I keep it?
Friday, May 23, 2014
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Say Things Well
It is a personal conviction and aspiration of mine to say things well. There is a way to say something well, or maybe only inherently to me it seems there is, so it's important to try to find it. Not so much in everyday speech, because so often I have no filter between the conception of a thought and its verbal birth, but in ideation, contemplation, and writing, there is a way to make a point and simultaneously, effortlessly make prosaic music.
Lately, I have felt nearly incapable of articulating the way that I want to. As a writer and someone who's generally passionate about communicating effectively, it's been frustrating. At times, embarrassing, that what I said does not even remotely equate to what I wanted to convey. Kind of like writer's block, but maybe more aptly named 'communicator's fog'. It's something no one else would notice or hold against me, except I to myself.
A veritable graveyard of thoughts once thriving and full of potential, my drafted posts list is racking up the longest string of weakly formulated paragraphs in a quite a while. Sadly, most of them will go unfinished, because the thought has landed there only to wither and die. And it's a sort of vicious cycle as there's something in writing that feeds back to me. Maybe it's exactly that: having not taken enough time to write, my articulation muscles are out of shape and practice. Cheers to easing back in...
Lately, I have felt nearly incapable of articulating the way that I want to. As a writer and someone who's generally passionate about communicating effectively, it's been frustrating. At times, embarrassing, that what I said does not even remotely equate to what I wanted to convey. Kind of like writer's block, but maybe more aptly named 'communicator's fog'. It's something no one else would notice or hold against me, except I to myself.
A veritable graveyard of thoughts once thriving and full of potential, my drafted posts list is racking up the longest string of weakly formulated paragraphs in a quite a while. Sadly, most of them will go unfinished, because the thought has landed there only to wither and die. And it's a sort of vicious cycle as there's something in writing that feeds back to me. Maybe it's exactly that: having not taken enough time to write, my articulation muscles are out of shape and practice. Cheers to easing back in...
Friday, May 09, 2014
My Mother, the Saint
When I say "My mom is a saint", if you know me (or her) well at all, you know that I'm not merely spouting flattery; I honestly believe it. Her and I are so vastly different in personality - with similarities here and there, of course - yet we've hardly ever really fought. I'd say a grand total of five good, all-out fights in my life. It wasn't until one of those few recently that I realized she wasn't perfect; twenty-three years in. Even then, I don't know if I believe it.
Sure, some things here or there, such as forgetting to pick us up from school occasionally, should have clued me in, but she's just about the sweetest thing alive and so how could you stay mad at her? I hardly ever lasted the ten minute car ride home.
Year after year she hosts extravagant holiday meals, and she doesn't even like putting on parties! Furthermore, she's an introvert. Somehow, she puts in the hours of preparation, provides a delicious meal even catering to various dietary needs or preferences of guests, and graciously sticks out the entire party, inevitably well-into the night. All so graciously done. And while there may have been a time or two (or more) she's confided in me the desire of a more evident 'thanks', or someone else in our rather large extended family taking a turn, the next year she'll be at it again. Up until 3:00 am the night before thanksgiving, making her famously good pumpkin pies - with a dairy-free one for Grandpa.
She can't help but buy little presents that she sees fit for anyone. She not only eats up the very presence of her two grand sons, but nearly adopts the children of her nieces and nephews. When explaining that I'm one of a now rarely sighted family of six, I usually note my mother's love for babies. I'll never forget, before she had grandchildren the way her face lit up as she gazed on a couple's baby who they brought over to our house. She patiently sat on the couch next to the mother, smiling and admiring the baby's every action. Eventually, after I commented on her exuberance, the mother asked if my own wanted to hold her daughter. I'll never forget the look of pure joy on her face as she happily cuddled and swayed the little one.
My mother was made to be a mom, no doubt about it. She cannot seem to help herself. Many of her selfless mothering actions I would say ask too much, to the point of absurd, but she insists! For instance, nearly every time I visit my parents' house, if there's an opportunity she makes me sit on her lap. I, a grown woman, and her, an aging one, yet she insists. While my brother and his wife stay with them, my mom has taken on his lunch while she makes my dad's. One of few times in my life I was at a literal loss for words was watching her cut up the blueberries for his yogurt because "that's how he likes them."
She's a saint.
Most people have their moments of glaring humanity and imperfection, but we learn to love them in spite of it. My mom is one of those rare types that you tend to wonder where the heck she came from and how come they don't make more like this! The countless hours of her life she has spent just listening to, consoling, and sitting with myself, my siblings, her siblings - let alone my dad! Whenever I finish a bender of a thought-purge and profusely apologize, she replies matter-of-factly, "I don't mind." She carries an incredible amount of patience and grace that seems scarce in this world.
These and at least a hundred other reasons I love that woman, and can confidently say would not be so much of who I am without the example and support she's been for me in my life. I'm wildly blessed to have such a fantastic mother, who is so pleasant to be with and who does so well at putting others before herself in love. If anyone is really responsible for teaching me anything about selflessness in love, it is attributed to her.
To my dear mother, one of the best friends a girl could have, with every last ounce of my heart: Happy Mother's Day.
[...yes, early]
Sure, some things here or there, such as forgetting to pick us up from school occasionally, should have clued me in, but she's just about the sweetest thing alive and so how could you stay mad at her? I hardly ever lasted the ten minute car ride home.
Year after year she hosts extravagant holiday meals, and she doesn't even like putting on parties! Furthermore, she's an introvert. Somehow, she puts in the hours of preparation, provides a delicious meal even catering to various dietary needs or preferences of guests, and graciously sticks out the entire party, inevitably well-into the night. All so graciously done. And while there may have been a time or two (or more) she's confided in me the desire of a more evident 'thanks', or someone else in our rather large extended family taking a turn, the next year she'll be at it again. Up until 3:00 am the night before thanksgiving, making her famously good pumpkin pies - with a dairy-free one for Grandpa.
She can't help but buy little presents that she sees fit for anyone. She not only eats up the very presence of her two grand sons, but nearly adopts the children of her nieces and nephews. When explaining that I'm one of a now rarely sighted family of six, I usually note my mother's love for babies. I'll never forget, before she had grandchildren the way her face lit up as she gazed on a couple's baby who they brought over to our house. She patiently sat on the couch next to the mother, smiling and admiring the baby's every action. Eventually, after I commented on her exuberance, the mother asked if my own wanted to hold her daughter. I'll never forget the look of pure joy on her face as she happily cuddled and swayed the little one.
My mother was made to be a mom, no doubt about it. She cannot seem to help herself. Many of her selfless mothering actions I would say ask too much, to the point of absurd, but she insists! For instance, nearly every time I visit my parents' house, if there's an opportunity she makes me sit on her lap. I, a grown woman, and her, an aging one, yet she insists. While my brother and his wife stay with them, my mom has taken on his lunch while she makes my dad's. One of few times in my life I was at a literal loss for words was watching her cut up the blueberries for his yogurt because "that's how he likes them."
She's a saint.
Most people have their moments of glaring humanity and imperfection, but we learn to love them in spite of it. My mom is one of those rare types that you tend to wonder where the heck she came from and how come they don't make more like this! The countless hours of her life she has spent just listening to, consoling, and sitting with myself, my siblings, her siblings - let alone my dad! Whenever I finish a bender of a thought-purge and profusely apologize, she replies matter-of-factly, "I don't mind." She carries an incredible amount of patience and grace that seems scarce in this world.
These and at least a hundred other reasons I love that woman, and can confidently say would not be so much of who I am without the example and support she's been for me in my life. I'm wildly blessed to have such a fantastic mother, who is so pleasant to be with and who does so well at putting others before herself in love. If anyone is really responsible for teaching me anything about selflessness in love, it is attributed to her.
To my dear mother, one of the best friends a girl could have, with every last ounce of my heart: Happy Mother's Day.
[...yes, early]
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