Shards of Words

Waves crashed in the background as the kids and I sat down for a scrumptious barbeque. We chatted about our Made-Up Holiday and our bonfire plan. 

All laughed in unison, “AND NO TRASH!" 

Then came the usual question, “Did you get that scar here? On this beach?” 

I smiled.

I was 20.  Freshly graduated, boxes were piled in an apartment. The new job started Monday. My first night of adult independence. My date and his friends picked me up, stopped at a store to buy libations, then off we went to the beach. They encouraged me to pick something.

“We’ll buy it. You’ll be fine! In a month you’ll be 21. It won’t matter!”

I protested, but their arguments seemed logical. I had followed the rules up to this point.

What havoc would one bottle unleash? I picked a fruity Bartles and James wine cooler. 

The Jaunty Jeep parked near the beach bonfire area. We walked until a recently abandoned one was discovered. The guys gathered trash to quickly pile it on the faintly glowing embers. The guys blew full lungs of air on the smoking pile, suddenly flames roared to life. We crackled with excitement about the summer plans and savored those flavors of adulthood.

Near the fire’s edge, an rim of red peeled a paper bag. There lay a capped beer bottle. 

I queried, “Guys, should we take that bottle out of the fire?”

Date said, “Na… it’s only coals. The fire isn’t hot enough to do anything. It’s fine.”

 His logic seemed wise. Girls don’t play with fire, I thought. Boys do. He probably knows better.

The ocean breeze grew cold. Date gave me his ski jacket and took the thin windbreaker I was wearing. Our conversation lulled like the coals. Friend Guy started to kick the capped bottle around the embers.

The glass cracked a bit and foam eased out.

Jeep Driver said, “We should move it. That doesn’t look right.”

Easy conversation continued about our futures, crazy college stories, and again our voices grew quiet.  

Embers nearly cold now, Friend Guy gingerly pulled the bottle into the center with his foot.

Then rolled it around. 

Not too much. 

Just... 

enough, 

to watch the beer foam from the cracks in the glass. They commented on how cool it was to watch the foam ease out of the fissures. The cool science of pressure relief continued. I tuned them out and listened to the waves wash the shoreline. 

POP!

I saw them jump back and brush their chests. They were all over six feet tall, so I was confused. Why didn’t I feel anything in my chest? 

Then I realized my face was their chest height.

I put my hand to my left jaw.

I didn’t feel anything.

But I felt a knot in my stomach. 

“Um…. Guys… I think I’m bleeding?”

With eyes wide, they raced over. I lifted my chin. 

Date said, “Don’t bleed on my jacket!”

"Oh! I’m sorry.”  I rushed to take it off trying not to get anything on it. “Here.”

I didn’t feel like I was bleeding. But... it was his jacket I was borrowing, it kinda made sense.

I shivered a little, “Um… what can I bleed on?” 

He handed me the windbreaker, his tone softened, “Here, you can use this.”

Jeep Driver said, “We should go.”

“I don’t have any insurance. When I moved out my Parentals told me so. If we go to a hospital, they’ll know I’ve been drinking and arrest me. I can’t afford to pay for the hospital. My job doesn’t start until Monday.” I panicked. 

Someone said, “It will be ok. You have to go to the hospital.”

We piled in.

The Jittery Jeep’s racing engine was the only sound through those dark curvy roads. Loud thoughts lectured me about the mess I was in. This was God’s judgment on me for drinking. Now the Parentals would know. What would they do? What would they say? I was terrified.

Well...maybe now he will listen to me. Maybe my opinion will mean something. This scar on my face will show him that I know what I’m talking about. Maybe it will be worth it. It could be a blessing in disguise.

At the ER and in the care of nurses and doctors, my face was draped. A gentle nurse held my hand and talked to me because I couldn’t see. A compassionate doctor numbed my jaw and gave me 10 stitches.

My retelling of the scar story was interrupted.

“Mom! How could you think like that?” We all laugh at that young, gullible, innocent girl. 

Now, I can laugh at myself about it all.

I know a Loving Higher Power would not throw a glowing hot glass shard at my face, narrowly missing my jugular vein simply to punish me for drinking a wine cooler a month before my 21^st birthday. Of course, an action like that would never be a blessing. 

 My part in this whole tragedy of errors is the bottle was an issue for me. 

I should have taken it out.

I didn’t feel safe with a full, capped, carbonated glass bottle sitting in embers. I didn’t believe in the value of my own words. I held no value in my own opinion. This scar on my face reminds me that I knew what I was talking about. I didn’t see my own worth. I’ve learned the importance of my words. If I’m going to speak, it needs to mean something to me. I practice confidence in my voice.  If I’m not being heard, I stop arguing, evaluate the topic for either a redirect or to simply drop it.

That scar on my face is a gift. It gives character to every word I’ve spoken since.

Zany: A Boy Became a Man

Ase was 8 months old when I found out I was pregnant.

Zany blasted into this world with one of "those" birthing stories- cord prolapsed. Dramatic race down the hallway with a male nurse between my legs and plugging my hoo-ha. The only OB left only moments before. There I lay, anesthesiologist sitting poised with general anesthetic. The nurse still sitting between my lets, fighting to hold a crowning head above my cervix. Nurses running in and out:
"We can't find a doctor."
"We found one, He's just scrubbed in for surgery, but he's a neurosurgeon and hasn't done a c-section since residency"
"Never mind, the OB is back."

Anesthesiologist gently looks at me and says, "Start counting backwards."

At 10 months, sitting in a high chair eating breakfast.
Zany leaned to one cheek. Let out a butt cheek flapper. Sat straight up.
AND laughed.

At 11 months I asked him playfully what kind of birthday he wanted.
He hummed the Winnie The Pooh theme song.
"You want a Winnie The Pooh birthday party?"
"Yuss!"

I was in trouble.

I began to pray for inspiration. It came: How did Robin William’s Mom do it? Or Jim Carrey, Andy Kaufman, Tim Conway, Jonathan Winters…Somehow these men were raised without being broken by their Mothers.

After a bad day in first grade, he threw a vacuum across the room. His teacher turned a blind eye while classmates punish each other. She only acknowledged good behavior. In this Lord Of The Files environment, they cornered Zany, under a desk, yelling at him.

When we moved to the Central Valley where we chose to  home school. So much needed to be corrected and we wanted to give them a love of learning. Zany struggled to get his schoolwork done on time. So, I designed a natural consequence:

If you don’t get your school work done within the time allotted, then at the end of the school day, you take it to your room. No playing out side with the neighborhood kids.


He contentedly sat in his room for a week. AND quit doing school work altogether.

It was a hill I died on.

Some people wanted to call him “Strong-Willed.” But I knew he wanted to please. He had a soft and compassionate heart. If I broke that will, he would become a broken man. Not prepared for the life God called him to.

I met a Mom of a similar boy. In his teens now, this boy, years earlier would only wear kakis. It lasted a year. Why? Because it was weird to wear his name- jeans.  She agreed with me. That “Strong-Willed” book was only good for one thing:

Hitting your kid with it.

She introduced me to Raising Your Spirited Child and Making Children Mind Without Loosing Yours. These books saved his life. I stumbled across Nurture By Nature-based on the Meyers-Briggs personality test. This book gave me a game plan that changed as often as he did.

In Zany’s preteens, exasperated, I asked him, “Do I need to explain to you WHY I am an authority in your life?”


His stormy blue eyes widened. He softly and humbly asked, “Yes. Please?”

Because I Said So never worked.

Why? BECAUSE if I wasn't there he had no reason to follow the rule. He needed to have an intrinsic reason to be honest, respectful, honor authority, forgive and serve others.

Early tees found me in tears and on my knees daily. Homeschooling him was what he needed, but it was a refining fire for me. How to raise this gifted, gentle soul and not break him.
Zany wasn't mine.

I was a steward of the child God created. I would be held accountable for every millstone, harsh word or injustice. One morning, looking in the mirror and at a complete end Holy Spirit whispered this verse to my heart:

Through the Lord's mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23


If God’s mercies are new every morning for me, then from that fountain, I can extend them to him. I decided I was going to like Zany as a teen-EVEN IF IT KILLED ME.

Zany went to public high school. He was ready to be accountable to someone else. He wanted me to be just Mom.

Now he is a senior. Drug free, alcohol free, and a solid faith in a God who loves him. He knows he has shortcomings. Zany knows the only help to navigate them is growing in faith. He has a tireless work ethic. Impervious to bullying and passionate about justice. Still driven by his individualistic ethos.

He turns 18 today.
He’s a man.

AND I LIKE HIM.

The Nagging Why

Why?

After any kind of tragedy, personal or within the community that is the first question asked. Why so young. Why so many. Why didn't God intervene? Why not a miracle?

WHY?

I spent many years asking this question. Crying out to God. Talking to therapists and mentors. Journaling until my pen ran dry. Each time disappointment added to the pain in my heart. There was no answer that made the pain go away. Never would an answer bring back what was lost. No answer would heal a relationship.

I do not regret that season of Why because it taught me about grieving. In our culture, we don’t allow much time for it. We are expected to get on with it. Often the “encouragement” is to let it go and move on. Traumatic losses are not switches that can be flipped off and on. It isn't simply indigestion of the soul that a burp can relieve. It is a deep cut that needs tending. Ignored it festers into bitterness, resentment and anger. With the proper tending the healing process will be long and leave its mark, but in the end love, joy and health will return.

Part of the healing is a season in the land of Why. It is important because it gets us talking: to God, to others, and ourselves. Sometimes the answers fall flat, others are a soothing salve, but the answers never solve the problem. It is when I came to accept this that the next stage of my healing began.

How?

How am I going to get through today? How can I share the grace and love I have received in this season of grieving with others? How can I get to know God better?

After suicides, flashbacks, misunderstandings and constant change, How is my focus. It doesn't make it easier, but life is smoother. Whenever my mind visits the Land of Why, I remind myself to focus on the How. There are no answers for me in Why any longer. My energies are better focused in the present moment. How doesn't erase what happened, but it turns it into something to grow from. The scars from the past will never disappear. They aren't meant to. They are part of my character.

In Rick Riordan’s book, The Red Pyramid, Bast-the cat goddess- is asked to heal a battered old tom cat. Bast replies;

 “And take away his marks of honor? A cat’s battle scars are part of his identity.”

Thanks to those few words, I learned that everything I experience makes its mark. Some beautiful others unsightly, but all together my life is lived. My story is told to hopefully encourage and inspire others. 

Puzzle Solving with a Turkey Baster

We successfully released two ducklings K fostered for two weeks. In celebration, I pulled this post from last year to share. Living with wildlife creates opportunities for much writing fodder. This is one moment where the Divine taught me grace for myself. Enjoy

Originally posted on April 22, 2012


"Mom! The duck eggs are covered in water!

Her big green eyes search my face for an answer. I pause to think.

"Not the ones under the bush. Flare (the mama) is sitting on those. The ones in the neighbor's boat!"

Our back yard is a small lake and each house has a paddle boat. Girly diligently created relationships with two ducks this year. The reason: for them to lay eggs somewhere near our back door for her to watch and nurture. Success with one: a nest under the rose geranium. The other made a nest in a boat. Our usually dry town managed a four day deluge.

"I am not sure what we can do Love." I answered.

"Ya," she sighed, "I know, I just wanted to tell you."

Girly turned and walked out of my room. Instantly the Mom radar went off. For the past two days, a duck spent much of her day at our back door, waggling her tail feathers and quacking loud enough for Santa to hear. I wondered, could her noise be because her nest was wet?

Shaking off my Saturday morning repose to follow inspiration, I grabbed a turkey baster from the kitchen and went outside. Girly met me and we marched. I crawled onto the neighbor's boat and realized the task would not be easy. The boat four sections of the boat were filled to the brim. Resting at the bottom of one section, eleven eggs. Girly ran for a large cup as I sucked and squeezed water, ounces at a time. 

I finished the section with the eggs and decided to just clean the whole boat. I was there anyway and mosquito season is right around the corner. It didn't take long before the squawking duck swam over and patiently watched. After an hour of work, the eggs rested. Dry and  ready for to be reclaimed.

Duck swam circles around the boat and peaked in. Her problem was solved. The eggs were out of danger. Her mama's heart revealed, she peacefully swam away. Duck knew the eggs were not viable. I watched her glide across the water in wonder. The morning in the hot sun, my husband laughing at my creative use of a turkey baster, Girly at my side sloshing water out: the whole thing was too odd to not have some meaning to it.

Through the next week a picture popped into my head: a shelf with very neatly lined puzzles. The wooden brain teaser kind, in the shapes of cylinders, pyramids and barrels. About a year and a half ago, a series of personal earthquakes knocked the shelf off. In trying to find equilibrium with these unresolved things, I spend the time in mental gymnastics.

Often the advice is: toss the puzzle. Let it go. Stop looking for the solution.

That I have. I solve the puzzle and put it away. Weeks, months, or years later it falls into my mental hands and I am at it again. I would like to just dump it and move on. Yet it sticks, like book pages to my sap covered fingers.
Those who know me well understand that letting go is a process and have patience with me. Lately they have given me great perspective:

I am not like others, who can just dump a whole problem. I excise it piece by piece, logically and scientifically. I am letting it go; slowly. Patience and acceptance of this method must be remembered.

My Loving Creator is in the midst. When a thought or memory regurgitates, the immediate thought is to talk to a friend or make an appointment for therapy. The message I missed was this: the Spirit is ever present and in that moment wants to meet me for healing. My responsibility is to stop and discuss it, then meditate on the answer allowing the loving touch.

I am not that different from the duck. Duck experienced indescribable danger to what she treasured most. She could not solve the problem so help was cried for. I could not pick the boat up and dump the water out. It was too big and the eggs would have been tossed. The only way to answer was with a cup, a turkey baster and a towel. As I drained the water, one section at a time Duck waited. When I was finished she received the answer she needed. In trusting the Spirit to counsel me through these puzzles, I too will find my answers one piece at a time.