Playdough and other gray Areas

21
Apr

http://mrg.bz/DLazQs

We are such a comparmentalizing, either/or people, arent’t we?

We want each washcloth to be folded and neatly stacked. If we could give each one its own zip locked, mesh, linen bag, that would be extra comforting. That way, it won’t come unfolded, get wrinkled, or tumble out of the linen closet when we open the door. It will stay contained.

Decided.

Resolved.

Tidy.

But what if the stack tumbles over, the bags come unzipped?

To use another analogy, what if the play dough colors get put away in *eek!* the wrong containers?

Clay will become swirly, a merry mix of blue, green and red, yellow and purple to make **double eek!** a warm shade of gray. (All you play-dough separators out there — and I KNOW you’re out there — this is NOT directed at you personally. Go with the analogy okay?)

We don’t like gray much, do we? We want the colors (and people and ideas) to stay obediently in their places.

Moms stay in the home.

Dad’s are the bread earners.

Women are the ones who communicate emotions.

Men want respect above all else.

Men are the analytical thinkers. Women’s views are skewed by hormones and feelings.

We can do only one role well, or other roles will suffer.

Or we apply this to issues of faith, wanting there to be an “in” club and an “out” club. Because it’s not fair if I do all this work to be in the “in” club only to find out it’s ALL the “in” club, is it? And those gender role stereotypes come heavily into play in the church, even when we think we’re being forward minded.

What if we were able to see the beauty and relief of gray?

What if we focused on the coolness a shadow provides after the burning rays of the sun?

What if we admired the texture of an elephant’s skin instead of criticizing it for being less vibrantly colored than an exotic bird?

What if we valued the creative process of expression that produced that marbled mix of all colors when a child finished with that clay, instead of painstakingly separating out the colors and returning them to their yellow containers with corresponding lids?

It seems that some people feel that to not know the answer to a difficult question is indicative of not knowing the answers to any questions, and this inhibits them from seeing an opportunity to learn more or reexamine long-held suppositions. It makes people more uncomfortable to sit with the question than it does to spit out an answer they haven’t thought about in years.

What if we were okay with the question, even if that left us in the gray?

Lots and lots of questions here today, but I’m going to be bold and ask one more: what is your take on this? There, I did it. That was just one more. I’m a woman of my word. 🙂

Medicine is a Practice

20
Apr

The following is a letter sent to me by a friend I’ve known for more than twenty years. After I read it, I asked her permission to post it here for Medical Monday. It’s a honest perspective from someone in the medical field who has walked alongside people in some of their most vulnerable moments. The only edits I made were in paragraph breaks so it would be easier to read on a screen.

Thank you, Kris, for your friendship and for allowing us to hear how your experience with your dad shaped the course of your life.

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TC,

I was so sorry to hear that your child has been diagnosed with diabetes. Not because I don’t think that you can handle it, just that it is a long road and must seem quite overwhelming after just losing your dad.

I work in Medicine, the practice of medicine and although we wish we had all the cures there are some things that we can only help, not cure. As I am sure you recall, my dad had a seizure when I was in 8th grade. It changed our family forever. Dad was no longer a larger than life person, he was mortal, frail and they said he could die at any time. Living with death knocking at our door became a horrible reality as we watched him, waiting for the next big something that would take his heart out completely after the first episode had weakened his heart so severely.

He lived, and I do not pretend that I have been through the grief that you have had to bear, however knowing someone close to you can go at any time….. well it shook my whole world.

I had no safety net.

I had no place to curl in the security of this world.

I had to lean into the eternal. I had to look at what does last, knowing every breath could be our last. It was a horrible and wonderful place all at the same time. Those moments, days, months, years of waiting to see if my dad would live created a hunger for the eternal. They created a place in me that hoped to help others as they live with things nobody can cure. They created a space inside that hungers only for what really matters and what will truly last forever.

I work with bodies, broken bodies. Ailing health and diagnosis that don’t become a distant memory, however in the midst of all that tragedy the light of the eternal shines bright. The hope that we are not home yet, and as my daughter said yesterday, there won’t be anybody crying in heaven. No more pain, no more sorrow. The Lord that we cannot fully understand sent his Son to die so that we could have an eternity with no more pain. I live my life in medicine in hopes that I can always give a glimpse of what really matters to the patients I see. I take care of ailing bodies hoping they know the One that will make them whole and complete. I try to be joyful, but I cry a lot with those who mourn and those who have broken spirits. The fact that God loved us enough to save us by sending His son to die, that hits home so much more when you have lost someone close to you.

So in honor of medical Mondays, I say medicine is a practice, and we are all on the same team. Trying to help as much as we can and yet remembering that on our knees is where the real help comes. Medicine is wonderful, however God is always in control. So thankful that He is a God that loves us, even if we don’t always understand.

Love you friend, keep clinging to Jesus. -Kris

JDRF One Walk: We’re not Alone

23
Feb

The alarm went off at 5:30a as the coffee pot started brewing in the kitchen. We had estimated how long the kids would need to wake up at such an early hour, to what degree their slow-motion sleepiness would affect their ability to get ready. We considered how hungry (or not) they’d be at that early hour and how we’d account for an insulin dose based on the lack of appetite. We quietly opened curtains — it didn’t let in any light since it was still dark across the Minnesota landscape — and moved around in the kids’ rooms in order to get them to wake up slowly. It would take us at least 30 minutes to drive to the Mall of America and we’ve never been a hop-in-the-car-and-go kind of family; we take a while to get ourselves collected and out the door.

As we drove and our people started waking up, the excitement began to build. When we pulled up the turn light and saw the line of cars heading into the parking lot, it looked like a deal-driven Black Friday event. Why else would people be out in the cold morning before the stores opened at the mall?

There was no way we’d be out this early or driving to the Mall of America of all places except for this event. It was Saturday, February 21, and it was our first Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) One Walk fundraiser.

When we heard about the One Walk, we immediately knew it was something we’d put on our calendar. We were drawn to the idea of doing something to hasten the development of better solutions and even a cure for diabetes. Maybe it’s grasping at straws, but since I’m not a scientist nor a lobbyist, this felt like something we could all actively be a part of.

We’ve only had diabetes for two months, and I say WE because it truly is a diagnosis that impacts the entire family. We’ve come through the initial shock and how we’re learning how diabetes is becoming a silent member of the family, something we have to factor into all our events and happenings. I wish I could say we’re used to it by now, but we’re not. We will be one day, but we’re not there yet.

2015

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Our team’s dominant color was purple, and team members did it up right: a purple scarf, a purple stripe on the arm, purple shirts, purple shorts, a baby in a purple headband, one friend with one purple leg-warmer and matching sock (the location of her other purple leg-warmer remains a mystery), and purple lanyards for each member of our team. They were all there bright and early, each with a positive attitude and a desire to show their solidarity with our family. They helped remind us that we are not alone in dealing with diabetes — their care and love for our family will help us in those moments when it all feels too big to handle.

The atmosphere was festive and the hallways were packed with people. It was moving to see the matching t-shirts and various groups all present to show their support for a loved one with Type 1 diabetes. It was pretty overwhelming, and we’re still processing all that we experienced that day.

We raised over $800, which was $300 more than our goal. We were so encouraged by people’s desire to contribute and be a part of finding new and better ways to deal with diabetes.

If you were a part of that day, thank you. Seriously. Thank you. And if you weren’t, you may get a chance in the future and I’d encourage you to go for it. Look out for us in the spring of 2016 and plan on seeing these again, ’cause how do you use up 100 purple lanyards in a year? You don’t.

Have a Lanyard…Please

Have you participated in a large-scale fundraiser? How do you respond to the energy surrounding such events? How do you think they contribute towards positive change?

A hole in my prayer life gave my child Diabetes (or ‘the way subtle thoughts undermine spiritual Health’)

18
Jan

[Read more…]

How to write about things that aren’t only Yours

15
Jan

This has been a LONG year. No, Smartie Pants, not 2015, but the whole of 2014 and particularly the time since this summer. Many of you know that my dad got sick and then got rapidly sicker, and then the worst happened in June. Or was it July. Or was it a million years ago. Or was it yesterday.

I have a bit of a problem with time.

That’s not the point.

The point is, when my dad was sick, my natural form of processing is writing. It became even more important that I write about it when possible, because it helped me release some of my terrible sadness. It didn’t diminish the amount of sadness, but it made it bearable.

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Ever since I began blogging, I’ve had a weird hang-up with privacy. I like it. I like being able to know WHO knows what about me and when. I don’t spill my personal bidness with everyone, and especially when it comes to my kids and my family, I’m extra-specially protective. I try to keep their names out of my writing, try to never write something that could embarrass them, and try to consider whether I’d feel comfortable with them reading what I wrote. It’s a little bit of the same checks-and-balances as deciding if sharing a story about someone is gossip. Would they tell the same story? Would the person be in on the joke if they walked up and joined me, mid-conversation? Would it reveal something about them that wasn’t flattering and they wouldn’t want shared?

When it comes to writing, this is something that is murky. One can’t help but have her life intersect the lives of others. Are all those intersections fair game? Should friends and family of mine need to worry that any of our interactions are fodder for various writing projects?

Add to this already foggy question the element of parent/child privilege, whether the person you want to write about is your parent OR your child, and you’ve got yourself a downright quandary.

Anne Lamott has a great quote about this. She wrote in her book, Bird by Bird, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” To a large degree, I agree with her. Your story is your own. You own the rights to it. It’s not a matter of “your truth” as being somehow untrue to someone else; it’s a matter of perspective and what was revealed to us at a given time. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances that made someone behave a certain way during a certain period. That’s fine. But it doesn’t change the fact that they behaved that way towards you, and you were not given all the facts at that time. The facts don’t always excuse the behavior.

That’s all coming at this from a negative angle, presuming that the things being written about are potentially offensive because they portray someone in an unflattering light. However, what if the angle is something that’s NOT negative, but still could be seen as “oversharing” because they’re your Near and Dear?

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I must admit, I haven’t come to a clear answer. I know that I try to protect the privacy of the people around me, and try to never write something about them that I wouldn’t want them to read. (Okay, a couple years ago I MIGHT have tried to create a secret identity so I could blog in anonymity, but I’m just not good at keeping secrets, so it was short-lived.) I try to write the same way I try to live, with authenticity and honesty, both about the struggles and the beauty.

Maybe that’s the key to how to write about stories that aren’t fully your own: write with authenticity and honesty about the struggles AND the beauty.

How do you walk the line between disclosure and privacy, whether that’s in your writing or in your walking around interacting with others?

Hope alongside loss this Advent

16
Dec

It’s Christmastime, and I’m supposed to be focused on the coming of Baby Jesus. I’m supposed to be engaged in anticipation, preparing my heart for His arrival in a stable long ago.

It’s Christmastime, and I’m supposed to be festive and bright, reliving the wonder of childhood, all twinkle lights and icicles and hot chocolate with marshmallows and wrapping-papered mysteries under the tree.

It’s Christmastime, and the focus is supposed to be joy, love, peace on earth, goodwill to all. I still hold onto these, but they are several layers underneath right now, harder to retrieve. These are the liturgy I rely on, out of habit, out of the hope that if I continue moving forward I will one day walk to where I genuinely feel these things again.

Left to my own resources, without others depending on me or without commitments to maintain, I’d admit my landscape is more reflected in a windswept tundra than in the cozy abundant glow of a hearth hung with patchwork stockings that bulge with promises.

While the tundra may be the condition of my heart right now, I hope the edges can melt by small degrees. One morning I’ll step out and the air will smell different, a warmer breeze will blow. This must be true. How could someone drag themselves along if this weren’t true? Things must alleviate with time, morph into a different form that is better addressable in an organizable time frame, rather than intruding into everything. Time will make it less all-encompassing, less raw. That part’s already becoming true for me. I can gingerly touch on the subject of my dad without losing my composure now, whereas I couldn’t a short time ago.

So maybe those flashes of warmth I feel, those moments when I am caught up in something or forgetful of the loss for a moment, maybe those are flashes of hope for another year that’s yet to come. Look too closely at it and it will dart away. But keep your eyes straight ahead, and you might begin to sense its presence alongside the sadness. Catch a glimpse of it in your peripheral vision, this hope that can coexist with loss and mourning.

This is a new thing I’m learning: hope existing alongside loss.

But I’d rather have the hope without the loss.

We probably all know someone for whom holidays are challenging because of a loss or a broken relationship. How can we make space for these friends and family members in the midst of our holiday patterns and traditions? How have you faced your own loss during significant holiday seasons?

They’re your best Friends

6
Dec

The whole time I was growing up, my parents had a mantra. I’m one of four kids, and my parents tried to convince us that we were best friends. It was a tough sell, especially since I’m the oldest by four years, and growing up my attitude was that my next closest sibling was a smart aleck boy, and the other two were big babies.

Ripped my painstakingly crafted paper flowers. “That’s your brother. You are best friends.”

Followed me around copying everything I did. “That’s your sister. You are best friends.”

Threw a temper tantrum and wouldn’t stop knocking into stuff in the basement family room. “That’s your brother. You are best friends.”

Their point was to instill in us an appreciation for each other. We weren’t going to get out of interacting with one another, and there was a long-range vision at work — they wanted us to see that we would be in each other’s lives for just that — our entire lives — and we should see one another for our fun individual personalities.

This may seem an obvious truth, but the idea of being friends rather than only siblings widens the scope of interactions. It creates an expectation of enjoyment and of knowing each other more than just an obligatory way (“We’ve got to see them at Thanksgiving…hrumph, huff, puff.”). You trust in friends, you rely on friends, you like your friends. And planting the idea that siblings can be friends as well as brother and sister, it communicates something about the kind of relationship my parents had with their siblings, as well as what they hoped for their own children.

Happily, they were right, and my brothers and my sister and I are friends. We do enjoy each other’s company and especially in this season of learning how to live without our Dad, we are the only ones who truly “get it” about how hard this is. They are dear to me.

Now that we all have children of our own, I wonder how that “you’re best friends” mantra will play out for them. Looks like I’ve got a way to go to help my own kids to appreciate one another…

Child 1 to Child 2: I love you.
Child 2 to Child 1: I sort of like you.

Today’s post is a link up with Five Minute Friday and Kate Motaung. Write for five minutes, no editing, no worrying, then link it up. You can read more posts at her site.

Question for you: do you get along with your siblings? Nobody’s perfect, of course, but if you desire a closer relationship with a sibling, is there one step you could take to foster that friendship? Can’t wait to hear from you in the comments!

I do not think “Brave” means what you think it Means

17
Nov

A week ago I was trying to describe to someone how I was trying to be brave about facing into grief and loss. When she started her reply, it was clear she hadn’t understood what I meant.

She went on about the negatives of ignoring the pain of mourning and then we got onto another topic, something about how I didn’t want to inconvenience others by sharing my sadness with them, and how that seems at odds with the less than rigid personality I usually seem to have. You know, minor stuff.

Afterwards, I circled around our miscommunication concerning the word brave. I couldn’t understand how she could have missed what I meant.

See, the word “brave” used to mean being stoic, stuffing feelings down and putting on a “brave face” for the world to see.

It doesn’t mean that anymore, at least not to me. I’m not sure it ever held those connotations as deeply for people my age as it might have for Baby Boomers and those who came prior to that era. For them, I think there was an emphasis on keeping up appearances, not airing dirty laundry, etc. For goodness sakes, women vacuumed the house in high-heeled pumps. There was a different requirement for deep privacy, privacy even between spouses, friends, siblings, etc.

To a small degree, I understand that. For whatever reason, there are times when I don’t feel comfortable with people knowing my “bidness” (said the blogger with a public blog that contains words and thoughts that are read by the public). There’s a hesitancy in me in sharing too deeply with those I might not know as well or not sharing on my own terms.

However, there is a strength that comes with being open. The things we guard are shown to be less powerful when we share them with others. The secrets we keep shrivel when exposed to the light.

Leaning tower of Pisa black white architecture classic light arch

http://mrg.bz/ouV3Sp

Brave means to be willing to be open about heartbreak, hurt or sadness. Brave used to be about concealment, but now it is about a willingness to shine light on those areas we try most to protect. So when I said I’d been trying to be brave, I meant the opposite of what was understood (hello Communication 101: intended message vs. received message). I meant that it was hard work being brave, hard work to press in to the pain, to acknowledge the loss and the absence and how that impacts the interactions and rhythms of a whole family group.

It’s tiring to be truthful about such heaviness. Someone told me that a person can only handle a certain amount of “high emotion” (my term) and that a feeling of being numb can be a healthy part of the grieving process. It’s the person’s way of giving themselves a break, whether they plan it or not. Numbness allows a respite, but only for so long. Even in the numb, there is still a way to be brave about the reason for the numb.

It’s a matter of trying to lean into rather than away from the things that scare us or that which we’d rather avoid.

[In case you, like the person in the conversation that spurred this post, have a more traditional definition of the word brave, please let me direct you to the work of Brene Brown . Her books about vulnerability, authenticity, shame and courage have changed the way many people view those topics and the way they interact with the world around them. Seriously. Go read them.]

[I promise that we WILL talk about something else someday. Truly. And it will be grand. This is a hard season we’re entering, and I know I’m not alone in viewing “the holidays” as a little bit dangerous rather than a season of light and wonder. There will be light. There will be wonder. And there will be pieces of the patchwork quilt that are missing, making it all feel threadbare and incomplete. We’ll eventually get used to it — what else can we do? This year, however, a trip to Florida seems like a good plan. Christmas in Florida, with palm trees and sand, just doesn’t sound like you could really feel like you were celebrating the real thing. (No offense, Floridians. It’s all a matter of what you’re used to.) And something that lets us ignore the absence of one of our own? That may be worth the cost of airfare.]

Lost in the Woods

23
Oct

It was a weird morning here in Minnesota. It was misty but warm, quite comfortable for a walk outside. Great idea. Get out, get some movement, fresh air, all good things. I chose a nature preserve within easy driving distance from our place and planned on spending about 45 minutes walking, thinking that I could cover a manageable distance in that amount of time…

…until I got totally turned around and had no idea where I was.

After more than an hour and a half, here’s the conversation I had via text messages:

1.

Messages sent 20 minutes after thinking I knew where I was. Also, please tell me that you already know a “sippy drink” means pop from a fountain machine.

2.

Message sent when destination seemed unreachable.

Messages sent when my destination seemed unreachable. Clearly things were getting desperate.

3.

Eventually, my crisis was averted…and was never much of a crisis in the first place.

It’s nice to have people who will play along with you.

I ended up walking for almost two hours. Think of all the Reece’s Pieces I can eat now after exerting that kind of energy. Just for the record, I was never in any danger of drinking contaminated water or poisonous berries. But if someone could confirm which side of trees moss is supposed to grow, that would be helpful the next time I need to determine my navigational position.

Have a great Thursday everyone!

A Fall of Firsts

29
Aug

http://mrg.bz/FRiaej

This is a big fall. Our youngest child starts first grade. Since I stay home with the kids, this promises to be a huge change not only for her, but also for me.

In the past, I didn’t have a huge problem with change. Big changes are challenging for anyone, but changes in schedule or routine have never bothered me since I lean more comfortably towards spontenaity. Too much set-in-stone and I get claustrophobic-y. To me, it’s fun to have a few things scheduled (a certain amount of pre-planned fun ensures I’ll see certain people, invest in certain relationships or parts of myself) and plenty of room for last minute appointments, being able to help in a classroom, or other unscheduled things that come up throughout the year.

This year is different. This year the lack of schedule feels empty. The prospect of quiet sounds like a terrible idea. Instead of feeling freed by the idea of time alone, it feels ominous, as if the time alone could hold something that’s been kept at the edges of my awareness, and my sense is that whatever that thing is, it’s not pleasant.

A great deal of this has to do with my attitude about it (and what doesn’t? — our attitudes are so important to our experiences.). By allowing dread to settle down and make a home inside my chest, I’m forced to keep myself constantly occupied so I can ignore or be too busy to deal with it’s source. To be honest, that works for me for longer than I’d like to admit. Sometimes it’s because of circumstances but sometimes, I’m learning, it’s because of my own personal tendencies. I mean, who wants to feel sadness or pain? Not me, man.

At this time of year, I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling a sense of wanting to freeze time or keep things the way they are. Rejecting change is not really an option. I know there are other people out there who feel sentimental with the start of the school year, many who feel sad about the passing of time. Sure, for many people there is a sense of jubilation about kids going back to school, but those same people also will admit they hug those kids a little longer when they return in the afternoon.

Change is difficult, even change that is good can still be hard. However, instead of being intimidated by change or loss, or having an attitude of fear, let’s try this experiment together:

Take slow, calming breaths.
Don’t overschedule or overcommit just to fill the empty space. Be willing to say no.
Allow yourself to do a couple projects you’ve been meaning to get to, but don’t invest all your time in those tasks.
Take yourself somewhere you’ve wanted to go, do something you’ve wanted to do. Think of it as an investment in your overall health. You don’t need a reason or special occasion to do this — you are worth investing in.
When things seem too quiet or being alone feels scary, put on some up-tempo music and move your body. Walk, jog, bike, dance, yoga — whatever is appealing.
If you are avoiding something in your thoughts or your emotions, be brave. Turn and face into the thing you’re avoiding. You don’t have to face it all the time, but even chipping away at it in small increments will make it less overwhelming. Plus there will be less to deal with the next time.

Will you try this experiment with me? This fall is filled with many firsts, and not all of them are pleasant. I’m a little bit scared. But if we can allow ourselves to experience it, all of it, and manage our attitude about it, the changes will be less daunting and we might, in fact, come out of it with a richer experience this year.

What things about this fall seem intimidating to you? What changes will you experience in the next four months and how do you feel about those changes? Will you try the six-step experiment in relation to change? C’mon — things are more fun with other friends alongside!