sand, ghosts, promise

I've spent most of the day picking at old wounds. Not trying to heal them, or see if the bandages are secure. Just killing time, picking.


This weekend, I was told that I'd need a specialized therapy to heal my particular flavor of damage. And rather than be brave and brace myself for it, I've whined about being tired of trying. About wanting to just be normal. To just be anyone else that's not me.


Adding salt to my ego wounds, I heard a sermon a couple of weeks ago about cynicism, sarcasm is  just a form of complaining. The pastor cited the children of Israel in the desert. See, between Egypt, slavery, and the Promised Land, bliss, the Israelites wandered for years, years, in a place that takes weeks to cross. In that in-between, God gave them bread from the sky in the morning, water from stones, clothes and shoes that didn't wear out.


They had food. Clean water. Shelter. In the desert.


And they bitched. (The Bible's kinder. It says they "murmured". Pot, kettle.)


Moses got sick of it and told God. God's response? They're not bitching about you, Moses. They're bitching about Me.


So they wandered. 
And murmured.

Oblivious to miracles.


Distracted. 
Dissatisfied.


Scared.


They followed an unfamiliar path to a place they had to trust was better than what they left behind.   When it was hard, when a month of tomorrows looked like a week of yesterdays, they balked.


They claimed returning to the dehumanizing, vile past was better than continuing to trust a God Who loved them in a way they couldn't control or anticipate.


Tales of arrogant people in an arid land on the other side of the world shouldn't discomfort me. Except that in my Egypt childhood, God and I made a deal.


He said He would love me. I said I'd let Him, and trust that He did.


That was an easy choice when I was small. Beatings were bearable when I focused on a life without them. My body could be a defiled temple because it meant I survived another day. All the dark would go away one day, be wiped out by the light.


I'd be free. I could forget.


It'd be like it never happened in the first place.


Older now, I still wear shoes that remind me what I had to come through to get to where I am. And in the monotony of putting one foot in front of the other, hope seems a threadbare, pathetic thing. Feels like all I do spend most of the day kicking up sand and ghosts.



Sun rise, sun set. 
God and I made a deal.


He would love me.
I would let Him. 


Another dune, another day.

God and I made a deal.


He loved me.
He loves me.
He will love.


Out of Egypt.
Through desert.
Into Promise.

bitter when it's korma coated

We went out for dinner last night for Indian in a sleek, modern space in town. We'd gotten our nails done earlier in the week; I got a haircut. She dressed up, all tastefully sparkly and well-cut jacket.


Mom did really well, remembering her pain pills, inhaler, and dizzy pills. She didn't need any meds until time for us to leave, too, so it was a good night.


Or would have been if not for the fight.


There was traffic on the major highway, so we cut through town. There was construction (because it is a constant form of entertainment here), so she was jostled and... upset by the time we arrived.  We were late, there were changes in the plan. We showed up late, and she was ready, willing and eager to fight - in front of my stepmother. In the restaurant.


I apologized to my stepmom, and she smiled and waved a hand. (See? The late is well, well known.) Mom didn't hear me apologize, so she apologized on my behalf.


The set-up for the restaurant was walk-up order, pay, and then the food was brought to the table. We chatted about what we wanted, commenting on the rice and vegetables featured in graphic, modern ways on the walls. 


I had the card for the night, so I placed our orders (some spicy for me, tapioca/white girl NOT for her) Mom got things for drinks and napkins. Mary, my stepmom,  spoke softly to my mom as they wandered through the restaurant.


Mom talked the entire night, jumping as often as topics popped into her head. Sometimes the jumps made sense, sometimes they only made sense because I know she thinks. Mary did a lot of nodding and smiling. I drank a lot of water with lemon.


Our food came at a leisurely pace, spread like some great feast. The lamb fell apart in the plate, so soft and fabulous. Mine was served with tomato-y marsala, Mom's with creamy korma. Mary quietly consumed the daily special black lentils and root vegetables.


Underlying frustration and hurt flavored every word, making delicate rice taste bitter and empty. More comments were made about my horrible driving, speeding tickets. She said to Mary, "I'd rather get it out of the way now, because it's so much worse when we're back at the house later."


Like I'd hurt her. Like I'd hit her like Dad did. Like... I don't even care.


Like the only way to deal with all of this is to talk. Talk about it. Talk to others about it. Just keep talking and it'll get better.


The drive home was fine. Mom seemed in a better mood, and we could have talked in the quiet of the car. We didn't.


When we got home, I took in the food and purses; she fed the dogs. She went off to her room, I put the leftovers in the fridge. I was quiet, completely drained, said I was going to bed.


Hiding under my covers, surrounded by dark and Cookie Monster pj bottoms, she asked from the other room, "Did you put the leftovers in the fridge?" "No," I replied. "I sold them on the Black Market."


A while later, I was about to get up and apologize, when she said crisply, "There was no reason to be sarcastic." "You're right," I said. "There wasn't. I apologize."


Then I curled up tighter and slept.


Sometimes, I'm sorry to have to say, it just has to hurt for a while. Talking may help, but it doesn't fix everything.


The not-fight fight was a distraction. It didn't fix anything, and just showed how frustrating, how disheartening this whole situation is. 

This morning, my brother asked how the dinner was, and Mom said it was good. She and I are still not talking to each other. It's a civil form of warfare, a quieter cold war.


The valley is low. The hills recall white elephants. The shadows are heavy.


But sun burns fog, scars heal, and hope, soft and feathery, springs.

seizures, starbucks, & car trouble

Mom had a doctor's appointment Friday morning in Ardmore, OK to talk about what her seizures have meant, and how they've affected her quality of life. Brian, her psychiatrist, had kind eyes and and Tribal features, fitting the idea of a modern, authentic Oklahoman. 


Ardmore's a dot on the map up the interstate, and the highlight for us going is always the slower pace. 


It's a different world. 


Almost everyone everywhere subtly radiates the kind of traditionally held values and faith reserved for Norman Rockwell pictures or John Wayne movies. Few cuss in the presence of ladies; everything's shut down on Sunday morning because the entire town's in church. The hot topics of conversation at the local Starbuck's are the War wrapping up (since the population will roughly increase 20% when everyone comes home), and the price of gas ($3.09 at a gas station on the highway. I fueled up in Texas for $3.25). 


Speaking of the green mermaid spot, there's only one. Next to the highway. But there are five Baptist churches in the middle of town, with a Methodist, and 2 non-denom's within walking distance. Priorities here are just different.


And so I am a different person here. Life seems more innocent, more possible. Smiles are easier, and I feel closer to beautiful, to normal. There's a soft comfort in the air, and somehow, it's more OK to admit how much it really hurts to watch my mom be helpless.


She's taking her second nap right now, after sleeping a full 10 or so hours last night. And she's taken all the painkillers and sleep-helpers she can - as of 2 in the afternoon.


Her color was better yesterday, but I worry she wore herself out dealing with just everyday settling-in things. We had car problems, too, but as it's the weekend, we have to wait until Monday for the mechanics to be open again. She just worried and fretted after we had called and had a plan in place, reminding me several times before I left to check the car.


I'm scared. 


She seems to have better days, and then unexpectedly worse ones. She's present and seemingly whole, then she's as emotional as anyone I know because the pain's so consuming. It's like having a 13 yr. old in a 60 something body, who can't always stand by herself. And then, a dial is turned, a button clicked, and she's a functional adult. For half an hour. Before she has to sleep again.


I miss my mom.


She gets winded if she talks for too long. But then if she wakes alone, her loneliness hangs in the air like stale perfume. She talks to strangers here, her brown eyes luminous as she speaks of Jesus and her church. And I hate that my first thought is, please, Momma, save your energy. If you keep talking and gesturing, you'll wear yourself out.


I don't know what to do.


Praying, and talking doesn't give her any more health, or take away her pain. And now, 8 months into this, I don't really know what to pray for. Is there a lesson here? A way I'm supposed to grow? A lesson for her? Something she's supposed to learn?


Maybe this is just a progression in a beautiful, textured life, and I should accept that she'll be called to a far greater country soon. If that's the case, do I pray her passing is as painless as possible? Or do I ask that she is healed?


I want to be strong enough to pray God's will be done, to be that clean and bright a christian. To have faith there's a plan and a hope, even when it's overcast and unclear.


But I'm scared.
I miss my mom.
I don't know what to do.


We'll leave Ardmore tomorrow, after the car's repaired. The big city will welcome us back, with its Starbucks (or two) on every city block, and diversities of faith and politics and beliefs. The pace will speed back up. Life will return to its regular schedule.


Today, I talk to God in silently frustrated tones, in a town of slower rhythms, giving thanks that my mom rests. And for the hope that tomorrow will be brighter.

new year

I am going to lose my job January 20th. I don't have anything solid set up for after, and I'm not sure what's next. I've reached out to some old contacts, and there's a possible position I'm really hoping for. But there's nothing really there. Much possibility, not a lot of plan.

The timing strikes me as funny, just after the new year. It's supposed to be a time of new beginnings, of changing what didn't turn out the way I hoped last year. Of diets and making promises to do better. 

My new year's resolution last year was to be on time. It didn't seem like a big deal when I first had the thought. But it turned into a yearlong struggle. I would get so close to almost making it to meet someone on time, and then a light wouldn't hold, or I'd get distracted. I'd make appointments with the best of intentions, and then find any reason to not follow through.

Around June, I realized that being on time really meant setting aside what I wanted for what I said I would do; it was more than a matter of manners. My actions conveyed (whether I meant it or not) that no one else's time was as valuable or worthy as mine. I knew I could amuse myself, I didn't know if my friends or loved ones really could.


I was just more important to me than anyone else.


There are prettier ways to say it, but pretty truth only looks good on Hallmark cards. 


I was sitting in a beautiful space, and heard the statement made, "Part of the reason your life is the way it is, is because you've been living in sin."


Now, I'm just as passionate about the Bible and Truth and all that fun God-goodness, but really? Who says "living in sin" anymore?! The more I scorned and snorted in my head, the more the phrase stuck, prodding and poking inconveniently.


Talking to God in my car later that week, the phrase came back, and I poked right back at it again with a healthy dose of cynicism. Like Derek Webb said, "what is this, what's the deal? I don't sleep around and I don't steal." Why wasn't that Christian enough? I'm saved, Dude, erg, God. So, "living in sin" doesn't really apply.


'Cause He loves me, He very gently thumped me on the head. And we talked some more.


This is what I figured out. What is sin? Sin is anything that creates space between me and God, or God and me, and my biggest sin is being afraid God honor my heart's desire and basic needs. He won't take care of my family; He'll promise me bread and give me stones. He'll see how damaged and hurt and scared and not-perfect I am... and point and laugh. Then leave.


Or worse, stay, and remember forever what I did. He won't forgive; it won't be the same. Better, really, to stay where I am with what I have, than accept I have nothing and ask for what I really need.


So, really, living in sin means that I live in fear and distrust. I make do with what I have because it's mine, even if it's broken and poorly made. I horde and hide, snarling, biting the hand that feeds.


I don't really live in sin. I hide in it.


So, what does not doing that anymore look like?


It's not like me to not have a plan, or at the very least, a hole in my gut from worrying about my lack of plan. But last year, learning to live on a different timetable changed my perspective.


Now, there's a plan. I don't know what it is, or where it leads. But it's not my plan. He promised me a future and a hope; to keep me from causing harm - to myself and others.


This year's resolution is more of a mantra I keep repeating: more of You, less of me. It means a lot less trusting the familiar, and more of the accepting I'm unsure. It means not being safe and comfortable, but also accepting God's bigger than I keep thinking.


It's a new beginning.