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.

That Thing in the Room

They are very timid animals you know.

They are quiet, lumbering and often awkward. Out in the wide open world, they are easy to manage. Fresh air, weather or even a simple distraction make them seem manageable.

But in a room of people.

With a mountain of food.

And a holiday.

This beautiful, great big creature cannot function well. THEN we who bring the lumbering beastie with us, make it sit in a corner and be quiet.

The poor elephant.

Photo by David Blackwell.

Not able to talk to anyone, the pachyderm is in a precarious position. It must pretend to not exist. With a trunk, four legs the size of tables and a broom tail. The unfortunate thing is thinks itself invisible.

However, toes are stepped on.
Words are misunderstood.
Feelings well up into knots of yuck.

The pitiable delicate beasty can do nothing right.

Truth is, as we gather together for holidays, these gentle creatures join us. We need to be gentle. If it isn’t possible to talk to the elephant, just a nod will do. A small recognition of grace is what they deserve.

If we are gentle with them, possibly a few toes will be saved.
Words might be heard clearly if spoken with a sprinkle of love.
Feelings could unravel and begin to heal.

I say we should dress that elephant in a pink tutu. Adorn it’s head with a crown. Pull out a chair and offer it a seat.

Pretending like they are not there is not working. So,  remember this holiday season:

Please be kind to elephants.

Little Orphan Anne

From my earliest memory, flawless perfection was my goal. If I made a mistake, shame engulfed me. The God of my childhood loved me in spite of Them. I held a perception, IF a mistake was never made, then God’s ability to love me would be easier. My emotions, opinions and even my body were beyond my control. No matter how hard I tried to be good, obedient and flawless I would end up the same result: failure.

I would pray until sleep came, begging God to deliver me. I cried out:
Be my refuge.
Make me feel safe.
Save me.

Fear and chaos ruled my mind.

At 14 I stepped on a scale. It condemned me to 100 POUNDS.

100 marbles rolling across the floor.
100 people in a room.
100 pounds was heavy to pick up.
100 things was a lot of things

I looked in the mirror and elementary boy words from the many schools I'd transferred through, the pool, neighborhood, etc boys spoke in a Greek Chorus: You’re fat.

I pinched an inch and in the mirror I saw Lulu from HeeHaw.

The way I felt about myself and life up to that moment perceptively became true:
I was fat.
Fat was out of control.
Gluttony was a sin.

I couldn’t admit my chaos within. They told me the Bible said, to be anxious was worry. Worry was a sin. Therefore how I felt was a lack of faith.  If I could control fat, then I could control everything. I wouldn't have to be afraid anymore. I could be safe. I would have enough Faith.

Since Prayer hadn't fixed it, then Fasting would.

Jesus said so. If I could control what I put into my mouth, then Jesus could deliver me. Jesus would heal me. My sin wouldn't keep him away anymore. I spent the next 7 years controlling every thing I put in my mouth to keep my safe number of 98 lbs. When life became too chaotic, a blissful peace of a Fast would bring me peaceful sanity. I lived a lie of control and contrition: a false submission to God.

For me, truth of this dis-ease is Fear.

Fear of losing control
Fear of mistakes.
Fear of all the things that could go wrong.
Fear of what action to take when they do go wrong.
Fear of not being perfect.
Fear of….

I found abstinence by working the 12 Steps in Overeater's Anonymous. In recovery I work at letting go of  the god of my childhood. I learn to be available to a Higher Power who unconditionally loves me. He equips me with what I need to get through each day. I recognize what is within my control and what isn't. Higher Power gives me the wisdom to know the difference. I am led to people who counsel me in true grace. Mistakes and shortcomings are ways of redemption, not prisons.

I call that little voice’s name is Little Orphan Anne. When life gets stressful, Anne has ideas about control. I stop, remind myself that I am powerless over the situation and ask my Higher Power for Its will for me and the power to carry that out. I go to yoga to connect with my body and care for it. I meditate to learn how to be safe in the stillness.

When my clothes don’t fit right and Annie suggests how out of control I am. Higher Power reminds me how perfectly I am loved. The choice to believe the loving voice quiets my fear.

I often remind myself that thinking I was fat was only a symptom. It never was about being fat. For me, it was always about Fear. Anorexia was my medication for anxiety. In learning to face fears, deal with Life on Life's terms and accepting love from a Higher Power, One Day at a Time I find Serenity.

A Nest With A Revolving Door

I was not prepared for this.

I did what they told me to. Those older wise women in ministry as they reflected reverent behavior. They told us not to slander. Not to drink-if you do, not too much. We were admonished to love our husbands and children. To be discreet in our actions, make sure all of our flirtations and obedience was towards our husbands and NOT make friends with other men. Don’t act like Jezebel. Defer all final decisions to the husband. It’s ok to make suggestions, but in the end his word is law.

It was our job, to make sure God wasn’t blasphemed.

Over the last 20ish years of marriage and kids, I’ve watched my friends feel shame when the economy soured and they went back to work. Those who chose to send their kids to school defending it with, “My husband…” Those who did homeschool explain why their kids needed to go to school. I had friends who wouldn’t invite people over because she wasn’t a good housekeeper.

The cycle continues with the younger moms today. They carry a heavy millstone of obligation to everyone else.

And here I sit.

Two kids in college and yesterday I dropped Girly off for classes that we’ve added to the homeschool schedule. This season is coming to a close.

The season of children.
The season of being that hot wife.
The season of running the home.
The season of everyone else’s agenda.

I’ve spent the last year looking forward to this and also dreading it because it exposes a nasty, uncomfortable question:

What about me?

Friendships were directly tied to who the kids were friends with. Now that most of the boys’ friends are off to college, those moms are off on adventure of discovery. Their nest is completely empty while mine still has a fledglings and a rotating door.

I feel lost.

What about me?

Somehow I got the idea through the women’s ministry to not ask that question. It’s about Jesus. It’s about being God’s representative. It’s about the husband. It’s about the kids.

I feel confused. I’m not the kind of mom who wishes the kids were small again. I’ve loved every stage. Every moment that we passed through was savored. I like being their friend and mentor now. I like watching them make decisions and mistakes themselves. The question haunts:

What about me?

I become irritated with myself. The question sounds pathetic.

So…

In my struggle to find an answer I reflect on all of the women’s retreats, bible studies, groups, sermons and mentoring for an answer. It eludes me. I’m not an older woman who could mentor. I am not a younger woman eager to learn home management, child rearing and husband happiness techniques.

I am in a middle and feel a bit abandoned. I have no clear answer. My thoughts fall to my youth, when the focus simply was loving God and serving others. I wonder if that should have been the message all along.