Speed Bumps

         

I‘ve often shared stories about what makes me such a goof, and my beautiful daughter is my number one source…for the experience I’ve gained by being her Momma, and for the heartbreak that comes along with being anyone’s Momma.  She was born in the middle of the night, in San Diego, California, where my husband was serving in the United States Marine Corps.  She was born so quickly that I have often said I was sure she was using her feet against my insides to push herself out.  One very large tear and twenty-four stitches later, she was here.  And that’s the way it’s been since the beginning.

            Even then she has been unwilling to let others do their job to get things done.  She’s either helped things along in her own way, or ignored the system altogether!  The more I’ve tried to help her, the faster she runs the other direction.  And you know what?  Even as frustrating as that has been, I have to admire her moxie.  It’s been horribly difficult to watch her run into walls, and if any of you, dear readers, have had a strong-willed child, then you know how many tears are shed while watching them struggle, and fighting the urge to rescue them after every face-plant.  But she gets up and does it again and again, until she gets her way.

            Over the years I’ve learned that every time I push my wishes on her, I become merely a speed bump instead of a yellow line along the road.  The most difficult thing for us as humans to learn, but most important for sure, is how little control over anything we have.  Lots of New Age theology teaches doctrine on living to our highest potential by listening to the wisdom within ourselves, and that we alone have the power to control our destiny.  I say, “Hah!!!” It’s the same lie Satan sold Eve in the Garden of Eden.

            The truth is, that it denies our God’s sovereignty and His ability to show us how small we really are. Anyone who has watched a loved one die, or come upon the scene of a horrific car accident, or fire, or…. the list goes on, knows that there are many things beyond our control.  They alone can testify to that feeling of complete helplessness to change the situation. 

            My point, dear ones, is that those of us who call Jesus “Lord” are fortunate enough to have a leader who is more of a “people-whisperer” than a trainer that “breaks” us.  We can thankfully say that He does not force us to do anything we don’t want to, but waits for us to get the message that we can trust Him. He knows we’ll come when we are ready, because submission is so much sweeter than gloating over our crushed carcasses.

            Who or what have been your speed bumps?  They may be the difficult people in your life, the time in the desert you thought you’d never survive, or in my case, the physical infirmities that slow me down long enough to stop and look up. ‘Cause I know what kind of person I am.  If I didn’t have these speed bumps in my life, I would bust through life, going a hundred miles an hour, doing everything myself.  Instead, I have to rest when I am tired, fill up on His word, ask for His strength, and ask for His help to get things done….so I can keep on being a speed bump for my kid!

Cheech and Chong

The last few blogs have been kind of heavy, so I’m gonna tell you about a time when I had my prejudicial, stereotypical mindset turned on its head.  I was living in the fabulous Southwest at the time, Phoenix, to be specific.  Our new family of three had been just “sectioned-out” of the Marine Corps, away from the privileges (like cheap groceries) we had at the base PX in Southern California.  I still had base privileges up to a year after my husband was discharged, but I had to find the nearest base to our residence in order to use them, and that meant I’d be driving forty-five minutes to get food. We were both students now, living on what we made waiting tables in between classes, so the savings I’d get at the PX was worth the gas.  Since Mike was working more than me, I was the only one who had the time to traverse the desert for food staples, with our new baby in tow.

Most trips were uneventful, and this trip seemed to be no exception, until I heard a loud bang!  I thought I’d become the victim of a shooter, hiding behind giant Saguaros, and shooting at tires of unsuspecting motorists as they flew down the freeway.  I immediately felt a fierce pulling on the right side of my car and a horrible thumping, necessitating some quick thinking, in order to keep my car under control.  After all, the speed limit on that particular stretch of highway is 75 mph., and I had an eighteen-wheeler right behind me!  I remember my dad telling me to keep the wheel straight no matter what the car was doing.  I later learned that following Dad’s advice saved my life that day.

Thankfully, I was able to get the car to the side of the freeway safely. I had not fallen prey to a prankster.  I had a flat tire.  All the while, my sleeping daughter didn’t stir from her nap.  I’ve never had to change a flat tire before, but I sucked in a deep breath anyway, stepped out into the 118 degree heat, and proceeded to lay out the spare and all the necessary tools on the ground.  Just as I started to make sense of the directions printed on the spare tire hatch, an old green Chevy truck rolled off the highway, right toward me - and my sleeping baby.

I confess, I panicked. 

What I saw rolling toward me was a vintage Chevy truck, with two Latino drivers, in a decorated cab, replete with hanging ball fringe and striped blanket covering the dash.  Oh Lord, it’s Cheech and Chong!  I have lived in lots of places where there is a large population of Mexicans, Central American Indians, South American Indians, and not many of my encounters with them has been positive.  Our brains are hardwired to take in little bits of information and make quick assessments, for safety’s sake, so that we can make quicker decisions in the future.  In this case, I had become used to the shenanigans of fellow Latino employees in the places I had worked, so seeing these two men instantly foreshadowed danger to me.

When they got out of the truck and walked toward me, my first instinct was to run, but I stayed in my spot, rooted.  They smiled at me and I froze.  They continued to approach, and the next minute I know they are using hand motions and a blur of Spanish directed toward my car.  One man quickly jumped back in the truck.  Please God, don’t let them kidnap me and leave my baby behind!  He brought the truck closer, and I spied the lift mounted in the truck bed.  Finally I started to breathe.

They’re going to fix my car!

In very broken English, one man told me they were going to take my back tire off to put up front, and then they would put my spare on the back.  That way, he assured me, it would be safer to drive my front wheel drive home. They used the lift to pull my car up and exchange flat for back tire, and back for spare.  They were like a professional pit crew.  I begged them to let me give them something for their trouble.  They said, “No way.  We missed our exit and saw you as were coming toward the next exit, so we must have been needed here.  If it were my wife or daughter, I would want someone to stop and help.  We’re glad to do it.”

And with that, the two literally headed into the sunset, in search of an exit so they could turn around.  I was ashamed of myself for having first thought they would hurt me, just because of their ethnicity.  I’m so glad they missed their exit, and I’m glad they did what they did, because they not only changed my tire; they changed me.  I will never look at anyone the same way, nor will I forget the kindness of these gentle strangers, and lest I be tempted to stereotype again, I will remember my Cheech and Chong encounter and smile, because I know that angels come in every color.

Hey, if I hit a nerve, a funny bone, or wanna tell us a story of your own misguided prejudice, leave some feedback! I'd love to hear what you've got to say!

Finding Peace

            During a recent visit one of my favorite aunties asked if I written anything new for this blog, and I admitted that I hadn’t…mainly due to my scattered attentions.  I’m still substitute teaching, working on my book, and taking care of my family (including the two very needy dogs!), but I have also jumped headlong into the process of being “polished” as AMTC likes to call it.  It is the process by which raw talent, and the possessor of it is trained, discipled, encouraged, and empowered to present ourselves to a gathering of some of the country’s most esteemed V.I.P’s.

These V.I.P.’s represent some of the biggest names in music, modeling, and entertainment, so working toward becoming the kind of talent they would like to employ is no small feat. 

            At the same time I have been doing an incredible amount of internal work; work requiring a ton of introspection, prayer, and talking.  Even AT&T has done its share by facilitating conference calls between my sister, brother, and me.  Coming to terms with the death of a parent is one of the most life-altering changes one can endure.  Coming to terms with the death of an abusive parents is a different kind of matter altogether.  And. It is very hard work. 

            The three of us have said, each at separate moments, that if you had asked us two years ago if our childhood had been traumatic, we all would have said no.  Ask us if our parents were abusive and we would have said no way! But there is something about death that not only lifts the veil of mystery, but jolts the sleepy awake as well.  Once awake, those who were once sleepy, and now left behind, are suddenly thrust forward into life much like the newborn babe rudely delivered into a room colder than the womb it has just left, assaulted by the glare of brutal lights and touched only by gloved hands.  No skin to skin touch until the babe has been poked, fiercely rubbed, weighed and assessed.  Yeah, kinda like that.

            It’s abrupt and uncompassionate.  When cancer took our mom from our lives, it left a huge hole in our futures, and it left us to deal with a past we were content to leave in the shadows.  The three of us would tell you that it is a horrible conflict to deal with, to suddenly see our mom as she had been during the formative years of our lives, and still love her so fiercely.  To say that she had been my mentor, my best friend, and my biggest fan was easy.  To admit that she had been abusive was only something I was able to admit in therapy.  I think we all knew she was one of the most talented, intelligent, yet conflicted people on the planet.  She wrestled with herself constantly.  I saw it, and couldn’t do anything to help her, except to keep irritations to a minimum. 

            So, therein lies a paradox.  How can we say we love one who has caused us pain?  I mean, I’m not the only one who’s had someone hurt them in some way, right?  I’ve heard other stories of mistreatment by parents, siblings, and others we trust with hearts, and the injured party still loves the inflict-er of that pain.  Doesn’t make any sense!  But maybe it’s as easy as a wise friend in my character group said, “You’re not stupid. You love because of Jesus”…despite the injury caused. 

            It’s not any easier to admit my childhood wasn’t a fairytale, that there’s damage needing healing, and that I’m gonna be at this for a while, but I can say with tons of fervor that I loved my mama beyond description. Not in my own ability, but by Christ’s gift of forgiveness.

And that is where I am finding peace.

             

            

Head Down Not Face Down

I heard a story once about some children who had been watching a butterfly trying to emerge from its cocoon, and it seemed to be taking it forever.  Not only that, it looked as if the poor thing was working so hard to free itself that the children took pity on the creature and clipped the cocoon open.  Once freed, however, they found that it could not fly...for they were unaware that the butterfly needs the struggle to build much-needed strength for flying.

I too have been on an excruciating journey from the time I made the decision to write a book and actually doing it.  I made a million excuses as to why I’m not qualified, and eventually conceded that at the very least, it would be cathartic.  At the most; enlightening.  Instead I have gone to places I never expected (and didn’t want) to be. 

I also thought if I just keep my nose to the grindstone, I could have this project licked in a year.  

It’s been nearly two. 

Writing has caused me to do a lot of digging; a lot of soul searching and introspection. The deeper I dig, the more I’d like to cover up.  Facing truth is never easy, nor is pretending all is well.  If any of you have gone through therapy, you learn that in order to get well, you must go “through” not “around” the tough stuff.  It isn't fun, but necessary.  Unlike the butterfly, which can only achieve flight one way, the human heart explores a myriad of vehicles toward freedom.

We can educate ourselves, go on trips, and risk building new relationships.  We can become newly wed, new parents, empty nesters, and newly grieving, which are some of the weightiest predicaments for the heart to endure. Some of our most significant growth comes through these times, and like the butterfly, if we take short cuts to being released from the temporary “fix” we’re in, we don’t gain the strength we need to fly. 

Besides short cuts, we can also use a variety of coping strategies…some healthy. 

Some, not so much.  (Ask me about my chocolate addiction!)

I knew that much, but I didn’t know that I am a huge practitioner of avoidance and denial.  I didn’t even know I needed therapy until my doctor recommended it during a yearly physical.  She thought it seemed kind of odd that I hadn’t done so before, but figured there must be some missing element to my healing since I have been under doctors' care (I have a team) for almost ten years for a nervous breakdown.  That IS a long time I agreed.  I tend to run each day full out, and trying to get my body to go as fast as my mind wants to go is sometimes frustrating. So, I agreed to do whatever they thought best.

After lots of talking (not just to my therapist), reading some very relevant books, and a huge amount of soul searching I’ve learned that I have an issue with seeing what’s really there.  I tend to find the positive side  to everything (my twin calls this wearing my rose-colored glasses), minimizing the amount of pain it caused others or has caused me. My "go to" reaction to the tough stuff is to just keep my head down; bent into the wind. I’ve prided myself in being bulletproof.  

But.  I’m not bulletproof. 

I have a physical body, which stores experiences through sensory-laden memories that can affect the body in negative and positive ways.  Like the times my Grandpa would offer me an orange slice.  You know, the gummy candy with crystals of sugar all over the outside.  Yum!  Just thinking about it makes my mouth water and my heart smile.  It’s a place I like to go, so I don’t stop my mind from wandering there... 

Other memories of my childhood, though, are another story.  I’m still in the process of making it all make sense, so no details yet, but in talking to my sister and brother, comparing notes of what we each remember is interesting.  Some things I can vividly recall, while one of my siblings may have completely blocked it.  Like I said, we all have different strategies for “dealing.”

 The Word says we are to “draw near to the throne of grace with confidence that we may receive mercy  and find grace to help in time of need." (Heb. 4:16.)

But I don’t. 

I have trusted the phrases drilled into my conscious and unconscious thoughts.  

“God helps those who help themselves,” and 

“Pull yourself up by your bootstraps!” 

Or as my Grandfather often said as he would push away would-be helpers,"I'm skinnin' this cat, and you ain't holding its tail!"  

All are illustrations of us doing things on our own. 

Barbara Johnson wrote about how we often approach the Throne, ready to lay our troubles down, tell our Father everything that’s weighing down our heart, and then pick those burdens up again like luggage.  Guilty as charged.   

I forget that the same God who formed me in secret, made a difference between day and night, and sent my Savior to pay the price of sin for me...doesn't want me to put my head down, into the wind.  He wants me to learn how to get on my face, and ask for  help instead.