My Kids Caused My Memory Loss

I’m a little frustrated at myself for not jotting down the idea I had earlier for a blog post, because now I can’t remember it at all. I mean, that’s Rule #1 of writing: don’t trust yourself to remember an idea. I am not even busy at work--I stayed home, away from the sawdust, to continue recuperating from a nasty allergy attack--so I have no excuse.

Yet I can sing a jingle for a local newspaper that went out of business 30 years ago.

I used to have a memory like a steel trap. My parents marveled over my ability to parrot back song lyrics I’d only heard once. I was a fountain of (probably useless) information I had read “somewhere.” I could remember tiny details from past experiences. This continued up until my children were born, when first sleep deprivation and then their social, academic, and athletic schedules demanded all my available mental real estate and then some. So yes, I totally blame them.

Now both of my children have steel-trap memories. I’ve learned that if one of them asserts a fact from memory--say, something we were talking about last week, or the date of their next field trip--they’re probably right. (An exception can be made for my son’s claims about “facts” from the videos he watches on YouTube, since he tends to exaggerate and also often fails to understand nuance and context. But when it comes to things like how to do a math problem, he’s definitely going to be right and I’m definitely going to be clueless.)

Instead of arguing with them only to be proven wrong, or getting discouraged because my memory isn’t what it once was, I have begun harnessing their powers for (my) good. “Remind me to wash your basketball uniform after dinner,” I say. Or, “Make sure you ask your teacher about that permission slip.” Most of the time, they remember.

And if they don’t? (Which does happen because they’re kids and they usually don’t actually WANT to remember the stuff I’m putting back on them.) Well, then, I just look back at them and say, “Hey, it’s not MY fault. I told you to help me remember.”

I may have lost some memory, but I’ve gained some wisdom!

May you remember everything truly important this week! 

Always Go To the Funeral

I read a great article yesterday called “Always Go To the Funeral,” which was originally recorded for NPR’s show “All Things Considered.” They asked people to write short essays on the topic “This I Believe,” and Deirdre Sullivan, a lawyer in New York, wrote that she had learned from her father to always go to the funeral. To learn why, you should read the piece--it’s really great and also short. Here’s my favorite part of the essay, though:

“In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn't been good versus evil. It's hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing….In going to funerals, I've come to believe that while I wait to make a grand heroic gesture, I should just stick to the small inconveniences that let me share in life's inevitable, occasional calamity.”

We needed to go to a viewing tonight and it wasn’t very convenient. We can’t attend the funeral during the day tomorrow, so that left tonight from 5-7 p.m., at a funeral home at least 30 minutes away, maybe more at that time of day, and we are hosting a Limu party at our house at 7 p.m., to be followed by homework and snacks and “Oh my gosh, it’s after 9:00, you have to get in bed NOW!”

But there was no question that I would go. I didn’t know the deceased man very well, but I do know his sons and their families, having attended church with them for nearly my entire life. I babysat one son’s daughters, and the other son and his wife helped us start a small group ministry. Both have been great examples on how to do parenting right. Now their children are grown and they have lost their dad--a reminder to me (as if I really needed another one) that life is short. It may be less than convenient for me to fit a funeral home visitation into my schedule, but it’s worse  to lose someone you love.

In the article, Sullivan makes the point that we should always choose to do things that are inconvenient for us when they would be meaningful for the other person. I have often thought that I want to be a more thoughtful person, who sends encouraging notes and remembers birthdays and gives excellent presents because I pay attention.  Well, guess what: this is a way to actually start being more thoughtful.

When Justin’s parents died, ten years apart, I was struck by how much the simple gestures meant to us. There is a reason that people traditionally bring food to the grieving: it’s one less thing for them  to have to deal with, and on top of that, it’s delicious and therefore comforting. I promised myself I’d do better about providing food to the bereaved, and I have remembered to keep trying. So for this funeral, I offered to bake two cakes, and was told that one would suffice. I know this was not because my baking skills were being disparaged, but because plenty of other people had volunteered to bring or pay for food for the family meal after the service. That is encouraging, in this world which is full of so much animosity. We can still be a village.

So I baked the cake and frosted it, and it’s on the counter in its disposable foil pan. It fell a little in the center, but that just means those pieces will have extra frosting on them. I went to the viewing, and the family was happy to see me. And I was glad I had gone.

Brave

Yesterday in church the worship team was singing the song that goes like this:

      You make me brave
      You make me brave
      You call me out beyond the shore into the waves
      You make me brave
      You make me brave
      No fear can hinder now the promises you've made

Now what is a person who suffers with anxiety supposed to do with lines like that?

So many times I've mentally beaten myself up because I don't feel brave at ALL. The last line of this stanza is based on 1 John 4:18, which reads, "But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love" (NIV).

This verse made me feel awful whenever I was having an episode,* because I felt frozen with fear. It may sound absurd, but every weekend, I dreaded making a grocery list and going to the store...I think because it involved so many minor decisions that I felt overwhelmed. So when I was afraid to buy food for my family, I knew I wasn't "made perfect in love." I DEFINITELY wasn't brave. If He was "calling me out beyond the shore into the waves," I hadn't made it off the beach.

And surely that was my fault.

Setting aside the theological angle, here is what I realized in a flash yesterday while the song was being sung (and I believe it applies to everyone, regardless of whether you are a person who participates in a religious faith or not).

First, many thinkers have clarified that courage is not absence of fear. If it were, there wouldn't be anything particularly admirable about actions we define as courageous.

Think about it. If one cannot experience fear--and a few rare souls have this condition--then they are not knowingly choosing to be brave. They're just naively trusting as they go along. For me, courage is choosing to act according to one's values without regard to the danger to oneself. When I Googled "definition of courage," an even more succinct phrase came up: "the ability to do something that frightens one."

This is why my counselor gently asked me while I was struggling with the grocery store thing, "If a person has something that she's really afraid of (like going to the grocery store), and she does it anyway, does that make her a weak person or a strong person?"

Another mistake we make: we equate bravery only with physical courage. No one would deny that a firefighter who goes into a burning building to save someone is courageous. Since the will to survive is hardwired into human nature, that kind of bravery goes against all our instincts. It takes enormous willpower and a lot of adrenaline (I'm guessing) to overcome that kind of pre-programming.

Corrie ten Boom, author of The Hiding Place

I would never want to diminish the incredible difficulty of this kind of unselfish courage. In fact, I'll come back to it in a minute. But now I'd like to point out another kind of courage, a quieter kind. I've heard it described as moral courage. It can involve taking a stand against evil publicly or behind the scenes. Sometimes it too involves risking one's life; an example is the people who hid Jews during the Holocaust. In that case, secretly defying the Nazis' evil was more valuable than open defiance, since if you are alive you can save more people than if you're dead. Still, no one would disagree that Corrie ten Boom and Oskar Schindler were every bit as brave as the firefighters on 9/11...and many of those who hid Jewish people paid for their disobedience with their lives, showing that it's possible to exhibit both kinds of courage at the same time.

I'm coming to understand that a person can be brave even when lives aren't literally at stake. It seems absolutely absurd to think of myself as "bravely going to the grocery store" when people all over the world are facing unimaginable horrors.

Yet I think the message I got yesterday was that bravery isn't defined by the immediacy of the risk; what makes someone brave is that they acted according to their values despite their feelings of fear. 

I know many heroic single parents. Most of them probably have felt fear and even despair when faced with the task of raising children on their own. Yet they get up every morning and do the right thing all over again. That's courage.

If you think about it, the soldier who saves his fellow soldier in the middle of a firefight or the person who wakes up every day and refuses to let mental illness win are similar. Both of them choose to disbelieve the overwhelming information their brain is screaming at them and the huge chemical dump that makes their bodies shake, their hearts race, their throats close and their chests tighten. Both of them choose to act according to their belief about what is right. The soldier thinks, "It wouldn't be right to leave my buddy to be blown up." The person in the grip of clinical depression thinks, "It wouldn't be right to leave my family grieving for me."

I could go on to explain how the brain of an anxious person is giving the same signals as a person in physical danger--aka the fight or flight syndrome. But my posts tend to be too long already, so I won't. Another time.

Friend, if you find yourself stuck between the rock of your principles and the hard place life has driven you into, may I encourage you to cling to the rock? Choose to act according to your beliefs, even if it seems impossibly painful to do so. When I was in the middle of my most recent episode, I couldn't imagine living the next forty years in that kind of mental anguish...and I felt certain that I would always feel that awful. Yet I knew that love was my greatest value; therefore, love for my family--and God--made me choose, over and over again, not to give up. And now I have a new doctor, a new treatment plan, and new hope. I'm SO glad I was brave enough to keep going.

And that, I realized yesterday, is how perfect love drives out fear. Like so many things on my journey to healing, I'm learning that healing is a process. Perfect love WILL drive out all fear...if I give it time. It may take longer than I always thought that meant...but then eternal time is not the same as human time.

After all, the verse never said I am supposed to make myself perfect in love, only that "the one who fears is not made perfect in love." My job is to let myself surrender to the "love that made a way," as the song says.  All those who make the choice to "show strength in the face of pain or grief"** are courageous in my book.



*I choose to call my recurrences of my depression and anxiety "episodes" instead of relapses or anything that implies going backward or getting worse.  In a TV series, each episode has its own plot that is solved by the end but it also fits into a larger dramatic arc of the season and the series as a whole. Finally--and most important to me--episodes are temporary. Once you finish an episode, there is another, different one to experience.

**Google's #2 definition of courage.

Thinking Big

I've been wanting to post the next part of my reflections on the past year and goal setting for next year--I already had this written two weeks ago--but y'all know how the two weeks before Christmas are. Super busy, but I wasn't stressed because no papers to grade! No misbehaving students! Woo-hoo!

Once the kids were out of school on the 18th, we started finalizing gifts and food for our celebration with my family here and Justin's family in Louisiana. It was so fun to see C get excited to give gifts to others; I'll have to post pictures of the gifts she made me and Justin.

Anyway, this exercise is from Kate Matsudaira, who designed the Spark Notebook and now the Spark Planner. I got mine early in December and started writing in it today. It's gorgeous--see?

Kate has been sending out emails to help us think about aligning our yearly goals with what's really important to us.

I know the whole "What would you want your obituary to say?" idea and may seem trite and overly morbid as well. But I found it incredibly inspiring. The words just poured out of as I considered what I hope people will remember about me. Some of these things are already true for me (I think) and others are aspirations. So without further ado...here is my Thinking Big post.

MAKE A LIST OF THE PEOPLE IN YOUR LIFE WHO MATTER MOST...

1. Justin

2. My kids

3. Mom and Dad

4. My friends

6. Extended family

7. Church family and our pastors

NOW IMAGINE YOUR FUNERAL...
FOR EACH PERSON ON YOUR LIST, MAKE A NOTE OF WHAT YOU HOPE THEY WOULD SAY ABOUT YOU AND YOUR IMPACT ON THEIR LIFE.

1. I hope Justin would say: "Ali was my heart. She felt things so deeply. Even though she fought depression and anxiety, the point is that she FOUGHT them instead of giving in. At times I wanted her to "snap out of it" (it became a joke as she showed me that wasn't always possible). She wouldn't give up, she said, because of me and the kids. She couldn't end it all because she couldn't--wouldn't--do that to us. That was a huge gift and I know it cost her a lot at times.
     "She may have had bleak times, but most of the time she loved to laugh, even at my corny puns. She was always learning, always full of information she had read and was dying to share. She adored our kids and was a great mom to them, finding ways to nurture their talents and interests as well as sharing hers with them (for example, reading). She was their biggest fan but she didn't like it when I got upset on the sidelines because she hated conflict. When they disobeyed, she balanced out my sternness by providing a calmer perspective. When we disagreed, she insisted that we "fight it out" instead of letting things fester.
     "She never stopped trying to improve. When our marriage struggled, she took responsibility for her part and learned to 'speak' my love language more fluently. She also advocated for her needs when necessary.
     "Overall, she never quit loving God, her family, and her friends."

2. Allowing for their individual experiences and personalities, I hope C and L would say something like:
     "Mom was our refuge, a soft place to fall. We could always go to her when something was wrong and know she would listen and validate our feelings. She never told us we didn't or shouldn't feel a certain way. Sometimes she started to give advice before we were ready to hear it or tell us how to handle a situation, but as soon as she realized that, she would back off. As we became teenagers, she would say things like, 'Wow, that sounds tough. What do you think you're going to do about that?' She always believed we could handle our business and we knew she would be our sounding board if we needed to run things past someone first.
     "Mom was open about her struggles with mental illness. She believed that 'secrets make us sick' and she didn't want us to grow up knowing something was wrong but not that she (and Dad) were dealing with it. When we were little and saw her crying, she would tell us, 'Mommy's just sad but I am going to get better.' And she did. She set an example for us of someone who had an invisible illness that many people think of as a character flaw, but she chose to be open and vulnerable in her writing and in person so that other people could be helped by her experience.
     "Mom wasn't the most obsessive housekeeper, but she was a good cook. She believed that spending time together as a family was more important than anything else except our relationship with God. In fact, she pointed us to God; not only were we at church almost every week, but she served in any way she could, especially as in the prayer ministry. Mom knew how to pray and showed us how by example. When we were little, she would pray for us whenever we were scared or sad or just needed to go to sleep. Even as we got older, we knew she prayed for us every day. Finally, Mom lived her belief that she just wanted two things for us: one, to love the Lord, and two, to find and follow His purpose for our lives."

3. My parents have told me many times now that they are proud of the woman I have become. They are unbelievable parents. They embody everything I hope my kids will say about me in the years to come. They have told me--and proved--that their love and support is unshakable. They've encouraged me in everything I attempted, and sometimes when I wasn't ready to attempt it yet. They affirmed my efforts as a mother, from becoming a stay-at-home mom, to a working mom with a full-time job, to a mom with a part-time job. They have listened and given me invaluable advice ... I will cherish it forever. I wish they would outlive me but not because I died young; I'd love for them to live to 110 at least!

4. I hope my friends and extended family would say something like:

     "Even when life got so hectic that it was hard to connect, Ali was committed to our friendship. I could always call or text her when things were tough and she would drop everything to be with me. She also made time for us to spend together for no real reason, just to hang out. She would send notes or emails or texts or call us to let us know she loved us and specifically why.
     "Ali prayed passionately for us when we or our families were struggling, but she didn't lecture us. She knew how to just be there for someone when they are hurting. She always brought something to make us feel better, and it usually involved carbs and chocolate. She would send us funny things to make us smile.
     "She was REAL. She was willing to share her struggles, both to ask for help and to help others. She always loved my kids like her own and insisted that I tell her if hers were misbehaving. She believed in dealing with issues instead of pretending they weren't there. At the same time, she was a peacemaker. She didn't like conflict for no reason, but if it was there, she faced it with love so we could move forward."

5. I hope my pastors would say (speaking for my church family):

    "Alison was a deeply committed member of our church. First of all, she loved Jesus all the way down to her core. Nothing was more important to her than finding and following His heart. Religion and rules were not important to her and were discarded if they interfered with experiencing His grace. She was passionate about her method of witnessing, which she called  "not being a jerk." Although it upset her to see Christians acting hatefully, she tried really hard to forgive them, too. She made it a priority to look for the good in people and to be respectful of everyone, no matter what their beliefs. (If they were jerks, see above. However, she learned--rather late in life, because she was a recovering people pleaser--not to suffer fools gladly, but to speak the truth in love.)
     "Alison served the local church in some capacity at every point in her life. She did not believe in simply warming a church pew. She was involved in children's ministry, youth ministry, music ministry, small group ministry, benevolence ministry, prayer ministry, and world missions at various times in her life, as the need arose and her gifts were needed. She gave freely of herself and did not demand recognition.
     "Alison was a giver. She gave cheerfully of her family's finances, faithfully supporting the kingdom of God with tithes and offering. She chose to give from their gross rather than their net income, because she said she wanted a gross blessing rather than a net blessing. She believed she was blessed to be a blessing, and that she was meant to be a conduit which God's blessings could flow through rather than a reservoir in which they would stagnate. She not only supported the local church's efforts, but also world missions in countries like Haiti and Lithuania. She gave in practical ways when asked, such as supporting a Haitian orphan and loading bags for canned good drives.
     "As the daughter of a longtime pastor, Alison was a huge supporter of her pastors and their families. You never heard her criticize them; rather, she prayed for them and their children daily. She often let them know in person or in writing that she loved and appreciated them. She was also voracious in her desire to hear God's Word; she always, always had her notebook for taking notes during a sermon. She showed love to people in the church, going out of her way to welcome visitors and new members. She was a vital part of our church family."


And there you have it...what I hope people will say about me when I'm gone. I also made some goals based on these thoughts. I'll come back soon and post my motto for the year and the goals I've set!

Looking Back: 2015

I am so excited that yesterday I received my 2016 planner from Spark Notebook, which I had backed in a Kickstarter campaign. It was already funded so all I had to do was sign up and wait to receive it. I'll talk about the planner another time, but for now I want to focus on the planning sheets that the owner, Kate Matsudaira, is sending out for each week in December so we can reflect on 2015 and look ahead to 2016. Now that I'm out of crisis mode, this is an ideal time to do that. When I started answering the following questions, the answers just poured out of me.

WHAT WAS THE BEST THING THAT HAPPENED IN THIS YEAR?

I started my new job working for my husband's company instead of teaching school. It was a huge adjustment--once I caught my breath, I realized that with the exception of a couple of years when I stayed home with C, I had been tied to the academic calendar for 35 years (yes, I'm old.) But it was worth it.

OF ALL YOUR WORK THIS YEAR, WHICH ACCOMPLISHMENT ARE YOU MOST PROUD OF?
While my work life was nice and family life is always rewarding, I'm most proud of myself for starting therapy again to dig myself out of my chronic depression and anxiety.

WHAT WERE YOU DOING WHEN YOU HAD THE MOST FUN?
Laughing with my family; spending time with our friend group; relaxing at home alone; tending to chores I didn't have time to do before; listening to audiobooks; reading blogs; writing.

DID YOU ACHIEVE ALL OF YOUR GOALS? WHY OR WHY NOT?
I don't know because I don't remember setting any. I was so desperate just to get out of my stressful job. I successfully did that, so I think I'd say I did okay.

WHAT ARE 5 THINGS THAT WENT WELL?
1. Beginning to work for Village Cupboards. I discovered I am good at office work and organization.

2. Relationships with my husband, kids, and parents. My kids especially are a source of so much laughter and joy in my life. I'm closer to my parents than I've been in my adult life so far. My husband and I had some conflicts but are coming through them with more empathy and closeness than before.

3. Blogging (even though I just started back blogging regularly in November). I have written some of the most powerful pieces I've ever written. My heart has broken...but broken open and my vulnerability has taken my writing to a whole new level. I love blogging because I can have a  tangible connection with readers and get their input.

4. Getting to know the parents of my kids' friends. I didn't have much time for that before, unless we already went to church together. They are neat people and I'm glad my circle has expanded.

5. Therapy. My therapist says she just holds up a "mirror" to me and I process everything out loud while she listens  and occasionally summarizes or asks questions when I (finally) get stuck. I've had some life-changing insights.

WHAT ARE 5 THINGS THAT COULD BE IMPROVED?
1. Obviously my chronic depression and anxiety is an ongoing area to target for improvement. Importantly, though, I'm realizing that it doesn't mean I'm a bad person for having these episodes.  They are symptoms of an illness I deal with and I am learning to trust myself to manage them instead of freaking out, "It's BACK! THE SKY IS FALLING!"

2. My relationship with my husband. Our time together as a couple usually gets put on the back burner, and we need to make time for each other.

3. Working regularly rather than blowing it off just because I can (and once could not). I need to embody being a business owner (since I am a 25% partner).

4. Making time to spend with friends. I have spent more time with groups of women but not very much one-on-one interaction.

5. Create opportunities for our family to do fun things together to make memories rather than stare at screens. (I've already got some ideas going for this one; tune in later, as I'm going to blog about it!)

6. (Which was not on the list, but I just realized I need it.) Exercise. I didn't stay consistent with any certain routine although there were stretches of time when I was a gym regular. I need to make it a routine I will actually do on a regular basis ("No duh, Sherlock," as my 10 year old son is fond of saying.) This means it has to be super easy and so convenient that my excuses are...well, inexcusable.

I started writing about my new exercise plan, which I actually love and have done 5 out of the last 6 days (I had a sinus headache on Sunday), but then I realized it needs a post of its own.

Because it's not like it's common to make plans to start exercising in the new year and then bail out. That's never gonna happen to me. *snort*

Hello...It's Me (Oh Crap, Now I Have That Already-Overplayed Adele Song Stuck In My Head)

Well, hey there. I feel a little awkward, expecting you to read this post like I didn't just jump ship and stop posting for...for however long it was. 

But then I remember that when a blogger I like reading stops posting for whatever reason, I'm not bothered by it. I think, "Awww, she's just too busy with real life right now." I wish her well and then when she posts again, I'm happy to see her pop up in my feed reader again. I don't require a tedious explanation. So I'm going to assume that anyone reading this doesn't need one either. At some point, I'll probably write about my weird relationship with social media, but not today. Today is a day for bullet points, to make it easier to catch up.

• It's basketball season, and both kids are playing at a whole 'nother level--my daughter in middle school, my son in "select." Both require some more time than in the past, but it's not insane. My daughter practices before school and has one game a week, usually on Thursday nights. My son has two evening practices (up from one last year) and a game on Saturdays. None of his games are before 11 am, praise the Lord. Still, it's made dinners at home challenging when this week we have something during our normal dinner hour for 4 days straight. I'm not gonna lie, I cooked an actual dinner Monday night, chopped up brisket for BBQ sandwiches last night, bought the good deli meat, and forced myself not to feel guilty about it. They are now capable of making their own sandwiches. Hallelujah.

•  Friday is C's 13th birthday. She invited her school friends and church friends, and of those, it looks like 9 or 10 are coming. Last week I called one of those friend's moms hyperventilating because I couldn't make a decision on how to organize things other than C had (finally) decided to go to a trampoline park. My friend is a school counselor, so she's very calm, and also happens to be very organized. She helped me decide to have pizza and cake here, determine the timetable, then offered to help drive. She is a lifesaver and now I am not even worried mostly. 

• I'm about to have a TEENAGER. Ack! How did that happen? Seriously, she is so much fun to talk to right now. No one is allowed to tell me it gets worse. I KNOW. (I taught high school for six years, remember?) Let me enjoy it now although it may be the calm before the storm. 

• Last night I couldn't sleep, so I got up and edited some writing for a friend, and then read Garner's Modern American Usage. It's a book on grammar. I am the nerdiest nerd ever. The thing is, he throws in some really funny (to a grammar nerd) comments. I'm just going to stop now.

• This week I pulled the trigger and ordered probably 90% of the Christmas presents. There are a couple that need to be bought in person, and some stocking stuffers. We'll be with my husband's sister and their family this year, so I just have the main things shipped there instead of filling up my car.

•  I WAS going to buy brown craft wrapping paper and use coordinating ribbon I got at Target and possibly make gift tags, but then I decided although that might be simplifying for some people, it would be a step UP for me and all the articles say to reduce your stress during the holidays, don't do anything unnecessary. So...dollar store gift bags it is again, with my husband wrapping a few boxes. Since he's a carpenter, his wrapping game is STRONG. I hand him the scissors and tape, put other gifts in bags, and write on the tags. We all have our strengths.

 And how are all of YOU?
 

 

Lazy

 Too tired to write again. Or rather, I procrastinated until I was too tired. 

More to come later...

What to do after the end of the world

I'm writing this on Monday evening. Until now, I've had no trouble thinking of topics to write about. I still have a few ideas, but I'm tired and sad because the world is awful and it took almost no time at all to politicize a tragedy. So the best I can do is share the words of the amazing writer Anne Lamott, which she posted on her Facebook page soon after the news of the attacks on Paris. (This was a time when FB was NOT "of the devil," as I like to joke.) She offers no pat answers but some comfort and hope.

For now, I can hold on to these small glimmers of hope. And I'm making an apple crisp for dessert--
which I almost never do--that we can eat with ice cream because sometimes comfort food is in order.

I wish there was a website we could turn to called, "What it means, What is True, and What to do." Lots of very tense religious people are going to insist that their Scripture answers all these questions.

That's nice.

Lots of them will try to hustle us into joining them in Vengeance World. As that had just been so helpful before, right?

So where do we even begin today? What do we do when it feels like we are all doomed, and the future will only be worse, and we can't remember anything that ever helped us come through? From high school philosophy, I remember that Francis Bacon wrote, "'What is Truth?' asked jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer." It seemed the ultimate truth, at sixteen years old.

But I think we can do better than that. We have shards of truth, and we can gather them up, bits of broken mosaic tile that shine.

We know that this is a very dangerous place, that we are an extremely vulnerable species, that Cain is still killing Abel.

We know that "Why" is not a useful question; and "Figure it out" is not a good slogan.

We know that the poor, the innocent, babies and the very old, always bear the brunt.

So where do we find grace and light? If you mean right now, the answer is Nowhere. It's like after a child dies. Grace always does bat last, and the light always overcomes the darkness--always, historically. But not necessarily later the same day, or tomorrow, after lunch. Wendell Berry told me 25 years ago, in Advent, the darkest shortest days of winter, "It gets darker and darker and darker, and then Jesus is born." But it is only November 13! It gets even darker.

What is the answer? Gandhi is almost always the answer. Jesus's love for the poor and refugees is the answer. Adding a bit of light and warmth to these cold dark days doesn't hurt. Candles are beautiful and bring a soupçon of solace to our souls. People living on the streets could really use your old blankets and jackets.

Grace will always show up in the helpers, as Mr. Rogers' mother used to tell him in times of tragedy. But today, right now, if you have a nice bumper sticker that explains or makes sense of what happens in Paris, it's probably best if you keep that to yourself. It is definitely best that you not share it with me. It will cause me to get a tic in my eye and will guarantee that the next time I see you, I will run for my cute little life. Everyone in his or her right mind will. So how do we even know truth, in the midst of b.s. and lies?

What is true for me is that the shootings at Sandy Hook were the actual end of the world, evil or at least the most extreme mental illness made visible. There were no answers that day, the next day, the day after that. Well, you could go to certain web sites and Twitter posts, and I will not name names, and be told how stupid you were not to see that there was only one appreciate truth. Reload! But again, that was not helpful. What was helpful was that we stuck together in our horror, grief, anxiety and cluelessness. We grieved, we feared, we despaired, and raged, prayed; we reached out for any help at all; and these were appropriate responses. I am going to recommend that we do that today, and tomorrow. Wounds and trauma revealed were healed; eventually. Some of us couldn't eat at all, someone of us binged, some of us couldn't turn off the TV, some of us couldn't turn it on. Those were all appropriate. We felt like shit, and let some time pass, talked and stuck together. And day by day, we came through.

Talking and sticking together was the answer. It honest to God was. We were gentler, more patient and kind with each other. If people are patient and kind, that's a lot. It means something of the spirit is at work. For me, that is grace made visible. It doesn't come immediately, and it doesn't come naturally. What comes naturally is, Shoot the mo-fos. So when we could, after Sandy Hook, we paused, breathed, sighed, gasped at the rising numbers. Nothing changed legally, not one word, but we came through. Hearts were healed, imperfectly. People walked, lived fully, and even danced again, after bad psychic fractures that did not heal quite right, and that still hurt some days.

We will again, but it takes time. I so hate this! Hate this, hate this, hate this, and do not agree to this, but have no alternative, because it is Truth: it will take time. Today, we try to keep the patient comfortable--ourselves, our beloved, the poor.

We're at the beginning of human and personal evolution. Whole parts of the world don't even think women are people.

So after an appropriate time of being stunned, in despair, we show up. Maybe we ask God for help. We do the next right thing. We buy or cook a bunch of food for the local homeless. We return phone calls, library books, smiles. We make eye contact with others, and we go to the market and flirt with old or scary unusual people who seem lonely. This is a blessed sacrament. Tom Weston taught me decades ago that in the face of human tragedy, we go around the neighborhood and pick up litter, even though there will be more tomorrow. It is another blessed sacraments. We take the action and the insight will follow: that we are basically powerless, but we are not helpless.

I have no answers but know one last thing that is true: More will be revealed. And that what is true is that all is change. Things are much wilder, weirder, richer, and more profound than I am comfortable with. The paradox is that in the reality of this, we discover that in the smallest moments of amazement, at our own crabby stamina, at kindness, to lonely people who worry us, and attention, at weeping willow turning from green to gold to red, and amazement, we will be saved.

P.S. The apple crisp was delicious and it made my family happy. And I bought extra nonperishables to donate to the food drive at L's school. And I contacted a friend who's grieving a death and made plans to get together.

One small gesture at a time to combat despair. One candle at a time to light the darkness. 

What Is the Opposite of "On Fleek?'

It's 10:09 p.m. and I'm writing my post for tomorrow because I'm going to be driving all day tomorrow and I want you to have a real post.*

You see what I do for you people? It's like I'm a slave to my art. **

No, seriously, thank you for reading and commenting here and on The Demon Facebook. It's been a lot of fun and (so far) the problem hasn't been finding something to say, it's shutting up. (My husband would probably agree. No, I know he would. Bless his heart.)

Today's post is on The Art of the Selfie. Specifically, that my selfie game is not strong, for in fact I have no selfie game. What can I say, I don't have quite the extra time that the under-twenty-five set does. And not as much interest in my own face.

Still, I persevered. I took these selfies last week, on the day of the OOTD.

Sidebar: I had on a cute outfit today, but I did not take a picture of it because as soon as I got home, I was too hot to wear the whole thing so I took off the hat, the denim jacket, and the ankle boots, leaving only the sleeveless polka-dot dress from this post. But trust me, it was cute until the dang Texas weather spoiled it.

Why did I take these close-up selfies? Well, I suppose I was on a roll, and I had tried something slightly (very slightly) different from my usual makeup routine. So I took these in the car, because there's no natural light in my bathroom.

Here goes. Brace yourself (I know I am).

I like this one the best because of the giant sunglasses covering half of my face.

Hellooo forehead wrinkles.

I cannot even with those eyebrows. Must get to the salon STAT.  At least I remembered to use lip color.

First of all, did you know that the selfie actually ends up the mirror image of what you saw in the (horrible) forward-facing camera? You did? How did I not get the memo on this? (When I mentioned my surprise, my almost-13-year-old reacted with mingled pity and scorn. "Old people!" you could almost hear her thinking.)

Well, how am I supposed to take a cute selfie when I am holding the camera in such a way to create a flattering picture on the other side of my face?

I erased quite a few unflattering side-eye pictures, is what I'm saying. Finally I came up with these three which I didn't hate. I quite like my smile in the last one, although my eyebrows are clearly out of control. [Shudder]

We are not even going to talk about my hair. Why did I think this was a good idea?

This has actually been good for me, to see myself in the cold hard light of day and the horrible forward-facing camera. For example, I didn't think I had wrinkles. I now know better.

Really, it's good for me to see these things. As Socrates said, the unexamined life is not worth living and all that jazz.

[Alison locks self into room with no natural light and curls into fetal position, whispering, "It's okay, you're still young..." over and over again.]

Anyway, when I took these pictures I was going to tell you about my makeup. I no longer think that matters. Fine, I'm wearing an e.l.f. $3.00 peach-colored blush which works as a sort of bronzer for me because I'm so pale. I think I used it as an eyeshadow, too. There. Beauty blogging done.

You know what is also great for your self-esteem? A teenage daughter.

C looked at these selfies on my phone (I didn't show them to her on purpose; I'm not that desperate for attention). Her eyebrows went up and she smiled in a weird way.

"What?" I said. "These are the best ones."

"I like the last one," she said. "The others..." She let the sentence trail off delicately so as not to trample more painfully upon my feelings, but the implication was clear: she would never post selfies like those.

Well, tough, kiddo. Also, you might want to be careful about raising your eyebrows like that. It causes wrinkles in about 25 years.


*"Real" is subject to interpretation and the author cannot be held accountable for failing to meet the reader's expectations. Kthanx.

**See the disclaimer above.

Mount Washmore

Whew, almost missed the deadline again. I felt better today but I was very busy catching up on the things I didn't do yesterday, so a picture will have to do.

This needed to be shown in the extra-large size. I once heard it called "Mount Washmore." This is not even all of it: Mount Washmore grew by about two more loads, plus there was a set of our sheets that was not shown.

It's almost all folded now, except for some of L's clothes because he is as slow. as. molasses. when folding. He seemed shocked when I told him he would have to spend some of his precious time in the morning folding the rest.

Good night, my lovelies.

Human Reset; Creative Process; Blue Bell; Basketball

WARNING: Unlike yesterday, this post will not be deep, religious, emotional, or anything except random ramblings. So if that's not your thing, come back tomorrow. Apparently when I blog every day, I'm full of surprises. Who knew?

(I bet today's post totally gets more comments--at least on Facebook--than this one. That's okay. Sometimes it's hard to know what to say when someone gets really up close and personal with the Bible.)

I woke up with sinus pressure in my head and a scratchy throat. By the time I dropped both kids off at school--a circuitous route that makes me feel like an Uber driver--and plopped down on the couch, I realized my throat actually hurt and I was achy and tired all over. Getting off the couch was not going to happen that day...or at least only for small intervals, such as going to the bathroom or fetching something to eat. My body said, "We are certainly not going to drive for 45 minutes to an office to sit in a less-comfortable position, when there is nothing urgent to accomplish there."

I've always believed I should listen to my body, so I called my boss husband and told him I wasn't coming in. He made the appropriate sympathetic noises and told me to rest.

I read blogs for about an hour (I'm behind on my blog reading since I took a week off for anxiety, and doesn't it make me seem like such a nerd that I feel like I'm "getting behind" on entertainment. I think of it as "Internet homework" and a full DVR makes me feel the same way). Then I realized my head was hurting worse, but I couldn't take a nap because I felt too gross. I decided to take a shower because my mother always said when I felt yucky, "Take a shower and eat something." She still says that, and I've found that (along with taking a nap and medicine if necessary) it's the human equivalent to turning your electric device off and on again. Solves at least 75% of my problems (it would be 95% except I sometimes can't sleep).

Anyway, I told you yesterday that I sang in the shower and got the idea for yesterday's post, yada yada yada. Actually, it was not like an idea just peacefully came into my brain and I though, "Huh, yeah, that's interesting. Maybe I'll write about that," and I continued with my shower like a normal person. 

Yeah, no. (No one ever said I was normal, anyway.) It felt like the top of my head opened up and something outside me downloaded into my brain almost faster than I could keep up with. Notice I said it felt like that--I am not actually delusional enough to believe that my ideas came Directly From God. But it felt like it was not coming from me at all, which I hear is very common among creative types. You'll be feeling uninspired, do your daily word count, then stomp off moodily to do something else (like take a shower) and WHOOP, there it is. I believe Anne Lamott said it was incredibly similar to amoebic dysentery. It really felt that urgent that I get to a computer. In this case I was speaking the words out loud, which made me glad I was alone. I was just talking, saying all these things I'd never thought of before, with tears leaking out of my eyes because once I get emotional I can't stop crying, and then I stopped talking and said, "Oh God, oh God, please don't let me forget this, don't let me forget this." And I rushed through the rest of my shower and barely dried off so I could run to the computer and I didn't forget it and the rest came out easily as well, which is hardly ever the case with writing, in my experience (unless it's not any good, and/or you're plagiarizing.)

Maybe it was also like giving birth. Or there was this episode of "Dr. Who..." 

You know what, I'm going to stop with these weird metaphors. (You're welcome.) It was just really interesting to see my creative process working again. Anne Lamott also says that the muse doesn't show up unless YOU show up every day whether you feel inspired or not. This hasn't happened in YEARS, probably because I've never committed fully to writing every day. Oh, I've made promises to myself, but somehow making a promise to other people who claim to enjoy reading my words is quite different. Maybe I'll keep blogging every day for forever and ever.

MUAHAHAHAHA!

Okay, I feel better now. Quite possibly because I have again tasted manna from heaven, aka the nectar of the gods, aka Blue Bell ice cream. If you've never tasted it because you don't live close enough to Brenham, Texas, then I'm sorry and I hope you get to try it someday, sooner rather than later. Why did I say "again?" Well, everybody down here knows that Blue Bell voluntarily shut down its plants after an outbreak of listeria hospitalized 12 people and 4 of those died. It was a very sad and scary time. It seemed that the "little creamery in Brenham" would go out of business and then, judging from the ravings in my Facebook feed, life would not be worth living.

Well, Blue Bell arrived back in North Texas on Nov. 2 and FB was full of 1) Halloween candy and 2) Blue Bell cartons with the familiar gold rim. I didn't go to the store because 1) I had already done my grocery shopping the night before and I don't go to the store any more than I am forced to; and 2) I prefer to wait until a craze quietens down--one might almost say the trend becomes passe`--before reluctantly getting on the bandwagon 3) There was still Halloween candy in the house. 

Which is why when the only thing that sounded good with my sore throat was ice cream, I called my darling husband and asked him to stop by CVS for some Sudafed. "Oh, and if they have some Blue Bell, you could get some of that," I said nonchalantly, pretending my mouth wasn't full of saliva.

He's been married to me for 18 1/2 years, so this is not his first rodeo, honey. This is what he came home with:

Ohhhhhh yeaaaahhhh. Note that two of the flavors are chocolate.

Finally (because it is now three hours since I started this post and was interrupted and am now remembering that I woke up at 4 a.m. because my throat hurt), C had some exciting news today. After four days of tryouts, she made the basketball team!!! Well, one of them. We don't know if she's on the A, B, or C team, but it really doesn't matter. 85 girls tried out and only 30 made it. I am so proud of her and excited to cheer her on in her first middle school sport (cross country doesn't really count since she never got to run in a meet). 

L starts on a select (as opposed to recreational) team next week. More thoughts on that later. At first I thought I would get a T-shirt with her school name on it, but maybe I'll get one that says "Basketball Mom" and cover all my bases.

Although if I keep eating all this Blue Bell, I'm gonna need a larger size.

The Prodigal Father and the Elder Brother

While browsing on FB, I came across the video below and had this to say about it:

 

I seriously have tears in my eyes and my goosebumps have goosebumps after listening to one of my favorite singers (Dan Dean of Phillips, Craig & Dean) sing one of my favorite songs ("When God Ran," originally by Benny Hester). It perfectly encapsulates the story of the Prodigal Son as related by my pastor, Tommy Brandon, last Sunday at Calvary Church of South Fort Worth. 

Oh, God's amazing grace! I am just now beginning to truly understand it. To anyone wondering if you have gone too far to come back to God, please watch this video and know that there is no place too far for His grace to reach you. All you have to do is turn your heart toward home, and your Heavenly Father will run to meet you on that road.

Then a little later I began singing the song again (in the shower, and I'm sorry if that's TMI, but on this here Hairline Fracture blog, we tells it like it is) and crying a little, and then a lot. And I asked myself, "Why am I feeling this song so deeply? I know it's because I'm on a journey of experiencing God's grace at a deeper level than ever before, but...I'm not the Prodigal Son. Or the Prodigal Daughter." 

To give you some context, I accepted Jesus into my heart when I was sitting on my mother's lap at about five years old. I did feel a deep conviction and began to cry as the altar song was being sung, and my mom asked me if I wanted her to pray with me, and I did. And from that day until this, I have never intentionally walked away from God. 

I don't think that makes me better than anyone else. I know that "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23, NKJV). I believe that I am just as much of a sinner as the worst murderer on the face of the earth. And yet...on some level, I have never truly identified with the stories of the Prodigal Son, the lost sheep, or the lost coin, because I never truly felt lost. I never left.

And then it hit me. I never left.

So in this story, that makes me...the elder brother?

That doesn't make sense, I thought. When I hear the song, I'm imagining myself as the Prodigal, seeing the Father run to me, feeling Him pull me into His arms, holding my head to His chest, lifting my face, wiping the tears from my eyes, and most of all, hearing Him say, "Child, do you know I still love you?" The elder brother didn't experience any of that, so why was it speaking so powerfully to me in a way that goes beyond mere emotional empathy?

Here is how Jesus says the elder brother reacted when he heard the news that his younger brother had returned after wasting his inheritance and then how his father had responded:

 ²⁸ “The older brother was angry and wouldn’t go in. His father came out and begged him, ²⁹ but he replied, ‘All these years I’ve slaved for you and never once refused to do a single thing you told me to. And in all that time you never gave me even one young goat for a feast with my friends. ³⁰ Yet when this son of yours comes back after squandering your money on prostitutes, you celebrate by killing the fattened calf!’" (Luke 15:28-30, NLT).

All of my life I have heard that Jesus was condemning the reaction of the elder brother who was so mean-spirited that he refused to be glad that his own brother had come home alive. The elder brother represents the believers like me, like the ninety and nine sheep, who had never left, while of course God is the Father who runs to welcome home the lost sinner who has wasted all the precious gifts he was given, but who is far more precious in his father's eyes than the inheritance he lost. 

I have heard it pointed out that because "prodigal" means "spending money or resources freely and recklessly; wastefully extravagant," the story should really be called "The Prodigal Father." What earthly father would be so extravagant as to welcome that idiotic boy home without at least mentioning what he'd done?

"So...what'd you bring back?...Nothing? What, I'm sorry--I thought you actually said you brought home NOTHING out of the HALF of everything I own..." [Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.] "Okay. Okay. I'm going to need a minute. Okay, I've already ordered the fatted calf and told everybody we're celebrating, so I'm going to have to go through with that. But TOMORROW, buster, you and I are going to have a SERIOUS talk about how you can work off this debt!"

No WONDER I have trouble understanding the heart of my Father in Heaven--I get annoyed when my 12-year-old doesn't bring home change from the $20 I gave her to hang out at the mall for a couple of hours! In my own nature, I am so stingy, so close-fisted...and not just about money.

Left to my own nature, I am the elder brother.

Because--and this is a thing I don't think I have ever heard anyone say before--I think the elder brother's reaction is actually pretty relatable to most of us, if we think about it. Most of us are a lot more like him than we're like the younger wastrel. We've completed whatever schooling was available to us, gotten legitimate jobs and worked hard at them, tried to treat others right and be friendly and tip well and just generally be Good People.

Until that pesky younger brother shows back up and our Father goes all out CRYING for joy and falling on that STUPID IDIOT'S neck and throwing a huge PARTY for him. When all the time we were RIGHT HERE providing unpaid labor and not saying a WORD even when that JERK basically said he wanted Dad to be DEAD so he could go ahead and take his inheritance...and Dad GAVE it to him! Oh no, we kept our mouths shut like good little boys and girls and let him go, thinking, "Goodbye and good riddance." But now that he's back with nothing but the filthy rags he's wearing and smelling like PIGS, Dad's all, "Oh, hooray, Elder, your brother's back, let's waste some MORE money on him!" It just proves what I KNEW all along: DAD'S ALWAYS LOVED HIM MORE.

(It's possible that the elder brother in my imagination uses a lot of EMPHASIS when he's MAD, kind of like [ahem] someone else I know.)

This is the truth that hit me like a ton of bricks: the elder brother was actually not mad as much about the money, as he was jealous for the father's love.

He thought that his father's generosity toward his brother meant that his father loved his brother more. But as Jesus said, nothing could be farther from the truth! Unlike the teachings I've always heard, the father doesn't condemn his elder son; he begs him to understand. He tries to affirm his son and reassure him that the father's love has always been his.


³¹ “His father said to him, ‘Look, dear son, you have always stayed by me, and everything I have is yours.'" (Luke 15:31, NLT).

How would this story have been different if the elder brother had admitted to himself that the real problem was that he hadn't left his father's home in body...but he had never believed he deserved to live there?

He had stayed in the fields and worked, believing way down deep inside that he HAD to work to earn his father's love...but his eyes had followed his younger brother as he went on his merry way, and possibly he'd had the thought flash through his mind, "Now Dad will HAVE to see that I'm better than him. He'll HAVE to love me more."

And when his father ran toward his prodigal younger brother, it exploded that sordid little belief, and he felt angry and hopeless and unloved. 

When the truth was that if the elder brother had ever asked, the prodigal father would certainly have given him anything he wanted to throw a party. 

But he never asked. He assumed that if the father loved him, he'd just provide things like he had for the spoiled baby of the family. Except...that isn't accurate either. The younger brother asked, so the father gave him what he asked for. The father gave, grieving all the time that the younger son valued his money more than his relationship with his father. 

Whereas the elder brother had the chance to experience the depth of the father's unconditional love every single day...but he didn't believe it was his, and so he worked and slaved and stewed and felt unworthy and unloved. He never asked.

What if, I asked myself, just what if the elder brother had fallen into his father's arms and sobbed out all his insecurities and fears? What if he'd let his father hold his head to his chest, let his father lift his head, let his father wipe the tears from his eyes, let himself hear, "Son, do you know I've always loved you?"

Why then, I realized, it would probably feel a lot like I was feeling at this very moment.


“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. Or what man is there among you who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?  Or if he asks for a fish, will he give him a serpent? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!" (Matthew 7:7-11, NKJV)

She's Got This

Four weeks of school are now behind us. Since 7th grade is the first year students can participate in Athletics, it's also our first year in the wonderful world of middle school sports.

For girls in our district, the choices are volleyball, basketball, cross-country, tennis, and track and field (I think--remember I'm getting almost all of my information second-hand). You have to do two sports; right now it's volleyball season so the concurrent activity is cross-country. 

All of this is completely foreign to me since 
     a) I attended a tiny private school with only one sport for girls--volleyball. I'm 5'2". 'Nuff said.
     b) I don't have an athletic bone in my body. Since I was a high school teacher for several years, I know a little bit about extracurricular activities--mainly, that when you are absent for a game, you should always get your makeup work ASAP. 

I still stand by that, by the way. Academics shouldn't suffer due to participation in a sport.

Anyway, we left it up to C to decide if she wanted to try out for volleyball. She hasn't played much, but I thought she had a decent chance of making one of the teams. I think she was a little nervous about trying out, though, because instead she chose cross-country, which has no tryouts. After her Athletics coach explained what was involved, she told me, "Coach K said it's great for people who like to push themselves. I can't wait!"

It's true, she does like a challenge.

And she got one. In the first week, she ran more than I probably have in all the years of my life combined. Besides the running in cross-country, which happens before school, in Athletics, they do strength and conditioning and more running. At this point I think she's doing at least 2 miles a day.

Mercy.

Last week she started saying that her knee hurt. After the first week of athletics, the coaches sent out an email saying that they were not accepting parent notes to excuse students from working out. (Translation: the kids were sore because even the most active ones probably hadn't ever worked out this much, but the coaches weren't having it.) If a student thought they were injured, they should go to the trainer, or go to the doctor and bring back a note. Period.

After a day or so, C went to the trainer, who told her it was tendinitis, due to repetitive stress, and that a special brace thingy that puts pressure on the spot would help, and that she should take ibuprofen and stretch. We did that.

Remember she's still running 2 miles a day and doing squats, lunges, and I don't know what all.

Web MD said when you have tendinitis you should rest it completely. Meanwhile the coaches are telling her to "take it easy" but I'm not sure that's in my daughter's vocabulary. I could feel the worry circling in my mind, not yet becoming full-fledged anxiety, but I went back and forth on whether I should email the coaches, or the trainer...or go ahead and take her to the doctor even though I knew what the doctor would say and since we don't have traditional insurance, it would be out of pocket...and then she's on the list for the meet on Friday...should she bow out and let someone else go?

Then I felt this rising up in me: Let her talk to the coaches and visit the trainer. She's got this.

Sure, I couldn't help mentioning what she needed to hear from the trainer (namely, was she or was she not fit to continue running?) Then when I found myself telling her what to say to the coach and getting an impatient response, I got the message (finally) and bit my tongue.

That day she got in the car saying, "The trainer did some kind of voodoo magic on my knee!" (It's a machine that sends an electrical pulse through electrodes to relieve pain.) She had talked to the coaches. In Athletics that talk happened after she was trying to do the whole workout and started crying. The coaches said she needed to tell them she was hurting BEFORE it got to that point. Her knee started feeling better. But by the time of the meet on Friday, it was hurting again, and she and her coach decided that she should wait until she's healthy to compete. She was disappointed at first but rallied to cheer her teammates on.

What a lot of lessons she had an opportunity to learn. If I had stepped in and taken over with my anxious-mother emails, she wouldn't have learned any of them. 

Now, I am NOT saying that we shouldn't listen to our mommy-radar when it pings, "This doesn't seem right! I should check it out!" Most of the time when we listen to our deepest intuitions, it turns out we were right. 

However, I AM saying that I actually did listen to my intuition, the one that lies beneath my knee-jerk worried-mom reaction. Admittedly, C makes it easier for me, a certified wimp who hates taking risks, to let her be independent because she tells me to. This is the child who was so excited on the first day of kindergarten that we got there before anyone else except the student teacher (her actual teacher wasn't even in the room yet.) And once C had a puzzle in front of her, she looked at me and said matter-of-factly, "You can go now."

"What? Are you...are you sure you don't want me to stay at least until someone else gets here?"

"No. You can go." And I was dismissed with a wave of her hand. 

I walked away a little stunned, but knowing instinctively that she wasn't unattached to me, and that she did still need me for some things.

Just not this time.

I was right when I decided, She's got this. I just have to let her handle it.

Why I'm Keeping a Gratitude Journal

Justin asked me the other day why I hadn’t been writing 750 words a day like I had been doing on a website called 750words.com, which is designed to help you write every day by giving you little checkmarks for every day you write in a row and also notifying you when you reach 750 words. It’s all private and is exactly like writing on your own computer except for the desire to keep those check marks uninterrupted and the fact that it costs $5.00 a month. For a couple of months I was meeting my goal most days. So why did I stop?

I stopped writing when my depression and anxiety overtook me a few months ago, and writing was not on my agenda at all, not even a little bit. I felt I shouldn’t spend even $5.00 a month when I wasn’t writing for the foreseeable future. In fact, at the time I felt I wouldn’t ever be able to write, or enjoy reading, or actually enjoy anything ever again, because that is the kind of lie that depression tells.

Then I saw my doctor and added a new medication. I got better, and I reveled in reading again. Every book seemed better than the last! I enjoyed the heck out of lots of things that had become meaningless while I was in the grip of the Black Dog, including shopping, eating, and social media. At first I only wrote comments on Facebook and Twitter because I still felt fragile and didn’t know what to write about, even in a private journal. A few weeks later, I decided to start and keep a gratitude journal, as the research is conclusive that keeping one does help stave off the grim demon called Depression. I’ve started several such records in the past, only to quit when things got so busy that I didn’t write anything for months. Sometimes life was good-busy and sometimes it was stressful-busy. That, I tell myself with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, is exactly when you need a gratitude journal.

This is a brain after the person has been keeping a gratitude journal. The highlighted area shows increased dopamine, which is a "reward" neurotransmitter that feels goooood.

So now I keep it on my nightstand beside my bed. A few days may go between recording something, but at least a couple of times a week I take a few minutes to count my blessings--not just general ones, like family, friends, and a roof over my head. Specific things, like this entry from July 13:

• I had more energy today & I felt so much happier. Thankful.
• Went through the school uniforms . Also decluttered closets, which inspired Justin to get a bunch of his clothes ready to donate.
• Fun conversations playing 94% [an iPhone trivia app] and just talking with L.

Probably my favorite entry so far, though, is this one from July 18:

• Great talk with L about angels (good and evil) and Minecraft. Longish car rides are perfect to get kids to open up.

[And if you are wondering what angels have to do with Minecraft--well, I am right there with you. I think there’s really no connection, except that my 9 yo son is currently incapable of talking for more than 45 seconds before he says, “Well, in Minecraft…” And that’s when I nod and say “Uh-huh” and “Wow” while he talks about things I do not understand at all. Unlike angels. This preacher’s daughter can expound on heavenly beings.]

I want to remember those little moments that are going on in my life right now, at this specific stage. I wish I had done this all through my kids’ babyhood so I wouldn’t be wondering, “Which one of them insisted that a stuffed Chihuahua Beanie Baby was a cat, and in the middle of an argument about it, I had an epiphany that it wasn’t worth arguing with a toddler about?” If I’d recorded that epiphany, I’d know.

Oh well, I can always start now. And there’s always Facebook.

As far as keeping up with the fragmented yet continuous record of our lives: it helps that the little notebook I’m writing in is small and pretty, but not so fancy that I feel my words have to live up to its binding. I love beautiful journals, but I’ve faltered about 25% of the way through so many gorgeous leather-bound blank books. This one has a cardstock cover, mint green, with Chapter 1 printed on the front in gold. It came in a pack of 3 from Target; the other two are white and pink, and (you guessed it) say Chapter 2 and Chapter 3. Cost: about $6.00 at Target. I bought them for some other reason but they are perfect for this.

For some reason the lighting in my bedroom didn't make it look green!

Besides this fragmented journaling, which admittedly seeks out the good at the expense of the very real irritations and sorrows of life (mind you, I don’t need reminding to dwell on the negative), I do intend to write at least 750 words a day. My job gives me plenty of time in which to do so, and it’s a much better use of my time than endlessly refreshing Facebook and watching cute animal videos. Even if I don’t have time at work, I no longer have to spend my evenings grading papers, and my husband and offspring often vanish after dinner to spend time with their electronic devices; I might as well do the same with mine.

All that to say, I have hope that out of 750 words a day, a few of them will be worth putting on this here blog. And that is going to be the first sentence in tonight’s gratitude journal entry.