An Era of Threads Part 6

On January 16th, Grandma Edna passed away. According to Dad, over the last few weeks she communicated her readiness to go Home. Without much fanfare her soul left this mortal coil in the middle of January. At peace with those close to her. Dad said it was beautiful.

I went to the funeral.

It was the end of an era.

A season of family and fallout. Wounds and healings. A permanent parting of ways for the two branches of this family.

The sky was a thick gray as I stood on the outskirts of the grave side ceremony. The tule fog simply waiting to be unfurled and blanket the little town once the sun set.  I watched her family and friends laugh, wipe tears and shared knowing looks. Grandma was a woman well loved by those around her and I was glad. I felt for my Dad who shared stories and scripture verses. Caught between a family that was and a family that is cannot be easy for him. Grief is just different in that situation.

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The service ended and I walked to the quiet end of her casket. I thanked her for the example of strength-the way she defended her own ethic without compromise. I admired how she could communicate what she thought of people. I loved how she liked everyone she met, then decided whether to dislike them later. Her sense of style was impeccable. With a steely grace she would walk into a room. Her daily crossword puzzles and Yahtzee kept her mind sharp until the end.  I honored her as my Grandmother. 

Then I said goodbye for the last time.

Turning around I met Aunt2 and Uncle2. They live out of state now. With a warm hug we caught up on their new life. The task at hand and the gloomy cold that is Central Valley fog.

Then I set my gaze to the other side of Grandma’s casket. The family she loved deeply stood together. It would be the last time I would ever see them. I walked over and waited for conversations to ebb. Uncle looked at me with no hint of recognition. I reminded him of who I was and in surprise he said hello. It was good to see him again. I gave him a quick hug and he turned to address those standing behind me.

Aunt was next. My heart brimming with love for her, I hugged her. We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment and I said,

“Sorry for your loss.”

Her soft reply was, “Sorry for yours.”

My heart broke for Aunt. Grandma was her best friend. They had a very close Mother/Daughter relationship. I waited for the right words, “But you two had something special.”

Aunt’s eyes welled up. Her arms reached and I melted into them. For a moment I was a little unscathed girl being held by an aunt who loved deeply. We savored that moment then parted.

“Goodbye.” I simply said. She nodded.

The quiet ride home I watched groves of orange trees blur for acres. My eye followed the power line as it seamlessly flowed alongside the road. Never again would I have to travel there again. I could leave the pain and take the lessons with me. Let the bad leave its’ scar and walk forward in strength.

It was finished. 

An Era of Threads Part 5

Grandma Edna married again. In a new house with a new husband she thrived. A wedding reception at her house contained everyone. All within a safe distance of each other. After she again voiced displeasure to Dad about the boundary that existed.

She wanted her family around her on her terms.

Months later she turned her plea to a Sister. During her usual brag about Aunt and Uncle’s accomplishments. Her pride in their kids overflowed. She turned to Sister3 and asked again:

“Why can’t you just get over it?”

Upon hearing that, my resolve was set. I would not go up to visit her. I could not trust myself if Grandma ever asked me that question. My response would not be an honoring one. Grandma taught me well of independence and fierceness.

After a few years on their own, it was time for Grandma Edna and her husband to move into an Assisted Living situation. It worked for them well. Game nights, dining halls, and constantly surrounded by people to talk to made her happy. Still the person in the middle of a party.

Dad helped in her process of downsizing. He asked if I would like to go. After much thought I went. It was time not only to forgive, but reclaim a bit of myself. To move beyond the fear and begin to bravely exist.

We spent the day with her. My mind ready for the uncomfortable topic. I prayed for grace in my answers. Grandma Edna gave me the usual updates about Uncle, Aunt, Cousins and their kids. Accomplishments and accolades liberally described. I, my usual quiet self, listened. The anxiety ever present about the situation, I felt at peace with her. My heart resolved that this would be our Goodbye. It was a good day.

The curve all came when Grandma Edna then suggested go to Uncle and Aunt’s house to collect things meant for my sisters and their kids. 

My heart braced.

I began to think about it.

Not only did I come to her town and know that I existed in peace. Not only did I need to have a day where our strength met dignity and respect.

 I needed to allow my brain to heal as well.

 I sat in Uncle’s house still on the outside while my PTSD rattled brain ran through scenarios.   My breath measured but shallow. The knot in the pit of stomach settled. I listened as Uncle and Aunt talked about life and their transitions. Dad shared a few stories and laughter happened. I talked about my kids a bit. While I carefully controlled my exterior, my interior continued its’ inventory.

Uncle wasn’t a very big man.

Aunt looked just like Grandma.

I was an adult just like them.

Then a blanket of security wrapped around my heart. He will never be able to hurt me again. I am safe. I can leave all of the memories, feelings and hurt right there on the couch. It didn’t need to come home with me. I had permission to be done with all.

My thoughts calmed. The ball in my stomach relaxed. I was able to breathe deep.

The drive home with Dad was pleasant. We discussed the miracles of the day. What our family was like before the Big Thing. How much we laughed then. I told him about my boundaries. I felt at peace with all of them. It would be my last trip there. My gratitude expressed, we spoke our goodnights as he dropped me off.

An Era of Threads Part 4

As the case against Uncle dragged on, laws changed within the molestation epidemic. By the time it came to trial, the cousins’ and my testimony was no longer admissible. Statute of limitations had passed. Two Sisters would face the trial. The case continued to drag until the last moment when Uncle plead No Contest. His sentence was Community Service.

Legalities settled, Grandma Edna renewed her vigilant pressure of bringing the family together. Birthdays. Holidays. Anniversaries. All of us in different places of healing.

I found myself not caring about what she thought. Her discomfort did not bother me.

This resolve was something I learned from her.

What I did dread however were the funerals. Only three important ones remained. My Great-Grandmother.

Grandpa Johnny

And Grandma Edna’s.

Each I would need to attend and pay my last respects. Honor their lives and support my Dad as he grieved the loss.

Great-Grandmother went first. She was an immigrant from Switzerland. I spent a few nights with her when I was little. Within her was a sweet resolve. A similar fierceness to Grandma Edna, but a gentleness and grace. I greatly admired that quiet dignity. With only a few years of, I attended her service and wake. It was the first time I had seen Uncle. I felt a little sick, but not falling apart. He stayed on one side of the room and we the other.

By the time Grandpa Johnny passed away, I understood a little about forgiveness. Giving up my right to get even, be vindicated or even see justice was a start. The longer I wished him ill. I understood the verse, “Vengeance is mine, says the LORD.”

It was God’s job to judge. I don’t know what wounds Uncle carried which influenced his choices. Who knows, maybe Uncle simply paid forward a violation he received.

I needed to stop being afraid.

I needed to get out of God’s way as judge.

For my own healing, I needed to forgive

So, at Grandpa Johnny’s graveside, I approached Uncle.

With shaking hands and a trembling heart, I looked into his eyes. I said, “I forgive you.” Then hugged him. A peace flooded my soul. The words, “It is finished” breathed within me. Then I walked away.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean a Do Over. It doesn’t mean access to my life. It simply means I accept the same God that judges me, will judge him. The same sun that warms me, warms him. The same air I breathe, he breathes.

That’s all.

An Era of Threads Part 3

When I started high school, something changed within me. I so subtle it couldn’t be defined, but at the core was a fierceness. My Parents announced they needed a trip away. I asked if we could stay home. They hesitated and that subtle fierceness grew.  I was babysitting the sisters on a regular basis. I knew how to cook, clean and keep a schedule. Dad’s brother, Uncle2 and Aunt2 lived five minutes away. If something happened, they were only a phone call away.

I was 14.

I considered myself responsible.

And it whispered to me, “Keep Sisters away from them.”

It bothered me that the voice made no sense. Grandparents, Aunt and Uncle were kind. They loved us…But… I lobbied that logic with my feelings.

Feelings said we weren’t safe. Feelings said to protect Sisters.

Feelings won and never again did we spend a weekend with Them.

Then my Senior year.

A string of suicides.

An extra credit paper for Sociology opened a rabbit hole that rivaled Pandora’s Box.

The flood of memories explained why I became so fiercely protective of Sisters. Uncle had been a little too friendly. Compelled to do the “right thing,” I sat my Parents down and told them what I remembered. It was 1986 and Incest was the hot topic. Parents sat Sisters down and asked them the questions.

I had failed.

Uncle acquainted himself with two Sisters, the Third and youngest of us was unscathed. Dad approached Uncle2 and informed him of what was going on. Uncle2 already knew about it. Their family dealt with it years before.

Dad and Mom were left with a decision. Cousins and I sat down to discuss what the options were. We voted to report it and let the law take its’ course. Dad made the arrangements. We all made our reports to the Sheriff.

Then Dad had to sit down with Grandma Edna and explain what was going on. Why our family along with Uncle and Aunt2’s family would not be attending Holiday gatherings.

Grandma Edna didn’t take it well.

Her system of things was violated. This was her family and she needed them around her. Stuff like this happened all the time. She explained to Dad that growing up Uncle Blah and Uncle Pfft did such and such to girl cousins. It was just what our family did. What’s the big deal?

She then said to my Dad, “Well… why can’t you guys just get over it so we can get together as a family. I was raped at 14 and I got over it.”

An Era of Threads Part 2

My admiration of Edna grew as I got older.  Any time Edna included me in was an adventure an uncomfortable feeling was always present. When the aerobics craze exploded in the 80s, she committed completely. With the legs of Tina Turner, Edna would walk into a conversation. Then tell everyone how great going to the gym was and they needed to go too.

Her car was a beige Buick. When Edna pushed the gas pedal you could hear fuel pouring into the engine by the gallon. Often if a driver offended her, the window would be rolled down. Her fist shook out with a string of obscenities following behind it. Edna could never understand why someone would get in her way.

As former produce ranchers, Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny employed migrant workers during harvest seasons. They believed their workers were treated well and fairly. However, when Caesar Chavez began to unionize the labor force. They felt betrayed. Many a holiday table was filled with this topic. The turning point for them was during the grape boycott. 

My Grandmother with great pride told the story over a dry turkey. Driving by a market In her gas guzzling Buick , she saw protesters out front.

She turned a tight corner.

Parked.

Stormed into the store.

Purchased a bag of grapes.

Then strolled through the protesters, slowly eating the grapes in front of them.

I thought Grandma Edna was fierce.

Even though I didn't agree with her-and THAT car ride home was filled with my parents discussing how wrong that was. I admired her fearlessness. The way she could walk through life, not carrying about what people thought. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t popular. It was the way Edna thought things should be, so the world just better keep up.

I wanted to be as strong.

Parents tried to protect us from Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny’s opinions. We never heard all of them, but I heard enough to understand what prejudice and bigotry was. The hour ride home after a gathering at their house was filled with conversation about people. How we shouldn’t judge people by the color of their skin, but by their character. That Grandma Edna could have her opinions but to keep the secret that those opinions were wrong.

When we stayed for the weekend while Parents were away, it was quiet. If I spoke to Grandma Edna, my words were weighed carefully. Conversation was weighed and measured within my mind. It was always careful.

The rhythm went like this: one night with the Grandparents. One night with the Aunt and Uncle. Aunt had a bubbly laugh and made me feel sparkly and special. Uncle was friendly and busy. The houses were like dark and light. Careful and carefree.

Then something mysterious happened.

An Era of Threads Part 1

Edna, the oldest of five children, grew up through the Great Depression. Her belief as the eldest was to keep everything running. It was her job to help raise he siblings. As a young adult in movie theater, during a news reel saw a friend die while storming the beach at Normandy. Did her part to support the cause of World War II.

Edna married Johnny and they had three kids. When Johnny’s Step Mother asked him to help run an Orange and Olive ranch, the family moved. All three kids have stories to tell about squirrel shooting, burning tires on frosty nights to save the oranges and working together.

Photo by Sgarton 

When Edna and Johnny retired, they moved back to the Central Valley small town. Edna went to work at a doctor’s office. Johnny worked in an appliance store. If there was something in their community to be involved in, Edna was there. Somehow she held command of a room filled with people.

I met Edna in the late 1970s. We moved from Utah to California. My Dad, fresh from the military, looked diligently for employment. My Mom early in pregnancy, a little sister who was three and I in third grade lived together in the spare room. It was an adjustment for all of us. She and my Grandpa Johnny had strong opinions about everything. Often exchanged views in the kitchen. Edna made it very clear to me what rooms I was allowed into and where I was not. What could be touched and what was to be left alone.

Both of my parents were visibly uncomfortable when they left for their weekly card games and bowling league. Often they smelled strangely when they came home. Parents reluctantly explained to me about cigarettes and alcohol.

As much as Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny scared me, I was also intrigued by them. In the quiet my parents discussed their need for salvation, but we all attended church together. I liked their pastor. The Congregational Church seemed to have air within its walls, music and we could all sit together.  Children were welcome in service. After a time of worship, the pastor would call all the kids up for a story. Then we would run to our classes. It felt like an honest, whole body.

The Aunt and Uncle who lived in town seemed nice. Aunt was Grandma Edna’s daughter. Their relationship seemed filled with love and laughter. Aunt and Uncle had two teenage kids. Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny doted on them.

My Dad found a job and we moved into a neighboring town. Sister Three was born, Sister Two toddled around and I landed into my Third school of the year.  Three schools in Third Grade is a story for another time. Two years later Sister Four entered the world

Once in our own rhythm, the visits with Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny were limited to holidays and an occasional weekend when Parents needed to go out of town. The relationship, however, never changed. It was cordial always but what Grandma said went. No one disagreed with her. We watched golf and played Yatzee for fun. Otherwise we were expected to be quiet and play with our own toys.

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. 

Damned Joy

Originally published September 12, 2011

Offered to perform play in LA my apprehension took form of a dandelion puff leaning into a slight breeze. I grew up in an environment where worth was measured by the amount of disappointment a person created. This pattern fueled the trap I found myself in. I was asked to portray on stage my greatest lifelong abuser, a "righteous" Christian. After many years of therapy, medication, and prayer, I walked away from this type of Christianity. Taking this role would put all of that work in jeopardy. 

I vigilantly sought wisdom, I found peace. I felt His hand take mine. I understood He had a purpose for this dark path: "Learn compassion." 

Each time I examined this character’s motivation, wrote her thoughts, or spoke her words: I experienced anxiety. It started as a cricket crawling around my sternum. As the show loomed, anxiety became pulsing electricity. I knew I needed help and support from those around me. I asked. The show was taxing everyone. I realized help would need to come from outside of the show.

During tech week the question screamed in my head each day during the two hour drive there: "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I was asked," I replied.

"That's not good enough. Why are you walking through hell just to make someone else happy? What is in it for you?" The voice retorted.

"I don't know," was all I could utter.

During my research, I stumbled upon a Bradley Cooper on Inside Actor's Studio. He said, “The Joy is the work.”

This work brought me none.

Women, like the character I played, walk in a difficult Christianity. They wrestle daily with an obsession of being "right" in the eyes of God. Righteousness is measured through actions:

Martha's actions in Luke are condemned, Mary's are held as ideal.

The Proverbs 31 Woman is the definition of a good wife and mother.

Their view of forgiveness is skewed. When in the wrong, they only need to pray, asking God for forgiveness. They can never wrong their neighbor if they are right with Jesus. No conflict exists. The impact upon others is irrelevant. Their backs bend under this weight of legalism and fear. True peace and joy is impossible. In getting to know this character, I felt a deep compassion for those who live this type of Christianity.

Joy was in discovery.

Even though twenty years have passed, LA still feels like home. Everyone is inadequate, has a therapist, attends a recovery group, and is not afraid of being a "Hot Mess." I learned more about my shortcomings and inabilities and found freedom in facing them.

Joy was in the process. 

Photo from NY times article

Guarding the streets around the theater, I met Lewis, a 6'10" former NCAA Final Four basketball player. Homeless for the past 10 years, his patrols keep the area safe. He will not accept money he does not earn, is a beautiful storyteller and kind listener. Ase and Zaney have a new standard for washing a car, after watching him work. GirlyK will remember him as he danced with her and two friends. The four of them strutted the sidewalk and sang "Party Rock Anthem" at the top of their lungs. 

A Facebook friend came to see the play. Tahnee gave me unearned friendship my senior year. Walking between classes she told me one day, "Ya know, everything I heard about you is not true. I like you."

It was the single best moment of my high school experience. We spent hours catching up in a coffee place on Orange and Vine.

Lewis and Tahnee filled me with overwhelming Joy.

By the closing weekend, anxiety overpowered logic. Flashbacks of past condemning confrontations and absolute rejections shattered my grip on reality. The doors of insanity burst open.  Both nights on closing weekend, I raced to my car, curled up in a ball and sobbed for thirty minutes. I rode out those memories my brain thrust into view. As the waves of crippling anxiety washed over me God whispered, "Ride it out." When it was over, I still existed.

Joy was in survival.

I write this with significant cracks in my sanity and realize: Father was with me. Jesus carried all of my pain with Him on the Cross. He knows what a reality split feels like. Holy Spirit was an ever-present help in my time of trouble. Those old wounds feel drained of infection and cauterized. For the first time in years I have access to tears. I am better acquainted with my limits. Never again will I be afraid to express them.

Joy was in understanding Divine Love.

As I read the latimesblog and backstage reviews about the play:  it occurred to me that I could have survived as a working actress. Had I taken those few acting opportunities when I lived in LA, back when I was young and with stars in my eyes, my life might have looked differently. I know it wouldn't have been much, but a commercial here and there could have bought groceries once in a while. Knowing is good enough for me.

Joy was in realizing this possibility.

In the end I was granted Joy in an unexpected place.