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Thursday, 24 September 2009

Just To Get It All Out

This week has been....crazy. Crazy good, crazy bad, and sometimes just crazy.

I need to empty my head out, and since I do not have a pensieve, xanga will have to do.

I am feeling very excited about my new job. I am also terrified of screwing it up. This is the first job that I have really WANTED in almost two years. I will be working as the office manager for an alternative healthcare clinic in north Houston. It means a 45 min commute each way, and it's four days a week. I think it will be okay just the four days...and I'm looking forward to having a three-day weekend. I still have the option of working at my current job on my days off, also.

I think what I am most scared about though, is fucking up something that I really LOVE. For the first time in years, I feel like I will be working in an environment that is positive (albeit hectic at times), energizing, and life-giving. But there is a lot on the line. I know the doctor I'm working for. I've been a patient of his for 4 years now, and Lance and I are friends with him. He came to our wedding, for goodness' sake. I'm walking the line of fear, (pleasing man), and just being me, no matter where I am or how that looks (pleasing God, ultimately). I am a healer. In my bones, in the core of who I am, I am a healer. And I think THAT is what I am most terrified about...stepping into my life's work and testing the waters. Again.

With the start of my new job, we will not be able to make our trip to Portland next month. While Lance and I feel very good about canceling the plans for my new job, we were really looking forward to a vacation. We haven't had one in almost two years. We always swore that we would never be "those people", but we are. We've been broke and over-extended, financially and emotionally. I'm thankful for the job, but I just wish it could have started a week later.

This also means that our side trip to NorCal for my cousin's wedding is canceled. Lance and I are trying to figure out if it's worth it for me to just fly out there for the weekend or not. I really really want to see her get married...I was there the day she was born, and have been more like a big sister to her than a cousin. It's important, to say the least. But going to the wedding means going alone now. We don't have the scratch for two tickets. And that means facing my dad alone, too. I just don't know if I'm up for that. I love my dad, but I'm in the midst of trying to forgive him for many many hurts. If I could hurry along the forgiveness process, I would. I've released him from whatever debt I believe he owes me, emotionally or otherwise, so in that sense, I have forgiven him. But there is a lifetime of extreme pain and sadness and hurt that I am still recovering from. I 'm not getting stuck in it, I am moving thru it. But it is dense and deep and impossible to navigate alone. And impossible to skip to the end. I'm eagerly awaiting my miracle with my father, but this is the time for me to deal with my pain so I don't impart it to Lance or our children. I can choose another way, but I have to first be fully aware of the places that need healing and growth before I can choose anything else.

So, tomorrow, I am taking the day off. I am going to sauna and relax and think and pray. I can't work this all out on my own. It actually feels impossible.

Love,
Carrie

Saturday, 19 September 2009

Rhyder

Our friends, the Andersons, had a baby boy, Rhyder, 3 1/2 weeks ago. He was born with Trisomy 18 (http://www.trisomy18.org/site/PageServer?pagename=whatisT18_whatis). Rhyder left us this afternoon after a beautiful and difficult 25 day journey. He weighed 4 lbs and 2 oz. He had beautiful blue eyes. He was the little brother of Dash and Caden. He was perfect.

His life in and of itself was a miracle. 50% of children with this condition do not make it thru the birth process. As Dave and Michelle, (Rhyder's parents), and their two young sons mourn their precious baby's passing, we are all dwelling in the sweetness of his short life. I am moved to tears at our community's outpouring of love and care for the Andersons, both before and after Rhyder's birth, and know we will continue to love and support them after these difficult days. I feel no sadness for Rhyder. But my heart breaks for Dave and Michelle... for Dave and his feelings of helplessness and loss...for not being able to "fix" his son. For Michelle, whose body hasn't received the message that she doesn't need to nourish her baby anymore...whose arms must ache to hold him...and a trapped in a body still mending from his birth. I hurt for them, and questions that will come from 2 and 3 year old children who don't understand why Rhyder isn't coming home. These are the things that bring me unbearable grief.

I don't know how parents move on from tragedies like this. I don't know how God makes a family whole again. But I do know that I am eagerly anticipating whatever miracle awaits on the other side of this most profound pain, and willing to hold the Andersons in their loss.

Tuesday, 15 September 2009

I don't want to skip to the end.

I wonder (quite often) how much we could transform our lives and those around us if we just experienced things together, stayed in the bad feelings for a little while, and didn't try so hard to make sense of our pain, fix it, or conceal it...what if we just gave ourselves permission to feel the full spectrum of our emotions and share them with each other, instead? Feel it fully and completely, without judging ourselves, (or others), or our reactions? I think miracles are on the other side of our deepest pain and grief, but we must first acknowledge the depth and darkness of it before we can move through it to the other side where that miracle is.

This is not an excuse to lash out at others, to harbor undue bitterness and resentment, or to react in ways that are unhealthy and detrimental. (Remember: Honest, Open, Direct, and Appropriate.) But this is an invitation to embrace and accept all that we are, even the things we'd rather keep hidden. Chances are we see you, even the "you" that you think is artfully disguised by smiles, sighs, humor, aggression, apathy, personality, cleanliness, messiness, grumpiness, ditzyness, intellect, rebellion, super-spirituality, career, children, parents, causes, and the labels of "disorder". And chance are, we love you just the same.

I know that everyone has their own way of dealing with grief, loss, and pain. But skipping past the difficult, soul-wrenching, transformative stops along the journey and just deciding to be "okay" robs us all of our uniquely human experience, which in and of itself, is beautiful and miraculous and treacherous, all at the same time. I believe it is in this journey that we find Jesus, healing, and grow our capacity to love beyond our humanity. And to forgive beyond our humanity as well.

I love the journey we are on. I don't understand it, and I'm often angry and scared and confused, too. But your uniquely human experience changes my life when you share it. And I hope mine changes yours.

Love,
Carrie

Wednesday, 26 August 2009

The Miracle of Loss

Monday night, I found out that an old friend, Sean, overdosed and died that morning. Sean was in my youth group in Midland, (I was a Senior when he was a Freshman), and later, we randomly ended up working together 8 years later in Houston. Sean was a great guy, had a very tender heart and a sharp mind. He got married about a year ago after the birth of his baby girl. Sean was also sad. He had a very strained relationship with his father, and worked hard to prove himself as a man. He drank heavily. He dabbled in drug use. He moved back to Midland last year for a job, and the drugs and alcohol took over his life. Looking at pictures from the last year, it is clear how deeply he was hurting...my heart hurts for him now. And for his wife. And for his baby girl who, inspite of what Sean believed, is NOT better off without him.
(This is the second suicide I've experienced this summer. In June, my friend Jessica's mother took her own life. I went to Florida to just be with her...there were, and still are, no words of comfort for anyone who loved her.)
Tuesday morning, our dear friends Dave and Michelle Anderson, welcomed their new baby, Rhyder, into this world. Rhyder has Trisomy 18, and was diagnosed with this condition at 20 weeks. Many babies with this condition do not make it through the birth process alive. Even fewer make it through the first month. From there, the odds for survival drop dramatically with every month.
It's a lot to process. To be honest, I don't have all of my thoughts connected. They just keep firing and in my head and I can't seem to touch them long enough to write them down.
I'm so sad for Sean. But thankful for his life in the same moment. I'm relieved for Dave and Michelle, and baby Rhyder. They have dwelled in a place of belief and miracles throughout this entire process, and have stayed connected to one another and God. It is the kind of presence that is only possible through letting go of what might happen in the next moment in order to hold on to RIGHT NOW.
I'm also mad. I'm mad at Sean. Mad at Jessica's mom. Mad at myself. Why does it take things like this for me to remember that EVERY MOMENT IS PRECIOUS. Every breath is a miracle. And I waste them more often than I treasure them. I think many of us do. And I'm mad at myself because I will surely forget this lesson just as soon as I wrap my brain around it.
I am also thankful. Thankful to Sean, and Jessica's mom. Thankful to Rhyder and Dave and Michelle. I'm thankful to know them, to have them in my life for however long, to have their imprint left on my heart. Thankful that I get another moment to breathe in this everyday miracle of LIVING, even if it seems unremarkable.
"The secret of forgiving everything, of accepting things as they are, is to be clear that you understand nothing."
-- George bernard Shaw

Monday, 24 August 2009

What Comes From Unearthing the Grief

Just before I turned 23, I fell in love.
He was charming.
He was handsome.
He was kind.
He was godly.
Everybody thought he was amazing, including me.

We decided to get married.
Things quickly fell apart.
It was too good to be true.
He became manipulative.
He was calculating.
He left. He came back. He left again. He came back again.
God told him "no".
We broke up.
We got back together.
I forgave him. Welcomed him back.
Everyone still thought he was great.
He was mysterious. Secretive, even.
He broke his promises. Big promises, little promises.
We planned to go to backpacking across Europe that summer, believing it would be the trip of a lifetime.
He disappeared. No phone call. No chance meeting. Silence.
I nursed a broken heart. First in Africa with unreached tribes and German relief workers. Then all across Europe. Alone.
I prayed. I bargained with God. I begged.
I lost 25 pounds in 2 months.
I came back to Tulsa.

He was the first person I saw, by chance.
He asked me if I was sick. I said no.
I was dying inside.
He said he missed me. I stared at him blankly.
That was the last time we spoke.
Friends on the fringe began to express their relief that it was over. They reported seeing him.
Other women. Students. Colleagues. An old friend's sister. Nameless woman from the internet.
I was the biggest fool.
Still, I would have taken him back if he had asked me.
Revolted by my weakness and his addiction, I did everything I could to push him from my mind, untangle him from my heart.
I moved to a new house, one that didn't remind me of him.
When that failed to work, I moved to Europe.
He moved away on the same day.
I would like to say I grew closer to God, closer to myself, during this process.
I ran. As far away as I could, I ran.
I self-destructed in 1,000 different ways in 10 countries and 2 continents.
I lived two lives at the same time.
All across Germany at the pubs drinking beer and flirting with strangers.
Winding my way through France and Switzerland by train, watching the scenery change, getting off and on when it suited me.
Walking the streets of Prague in the dead of winter, feeling so cold I thought I could never get warm again.
Working in the dumps of Mazatlan, touching orphans and widows.
Slowly melting in the Texas heat.
On an island in Greece, where nobody in the world knew to find me. I was at the end of the Earth.
I was at the end of myself. Jesus was waiting. His arms were open wide.
I went back to Munich. I was ready to heal.
I stayed up all night, watched the sun rise on New Orleans Strasser as the city came alive.
I found a coffee shop and wrote for hours. Letters mostly. Letters that would never be sent. Letters that I threw into the Isor river instead.
And one poem.

WHAT COMES FROM UNEARTHING THE GRIEF
A long-forgotten fable-
Yesterday I found you
Grief turned to Ink
Blood pulsed through my head
Interlocked fingers and Black coffee at midnight...
All uniformly bound in the solitary flicker of a Vanilla candle's glow.
It was not a day to remember
A bowl of Oranges on the table
Magazines and what I felt
Tears laid to rest what tragedy has befallen us.
An Atomic bomb in reverse
The casualty of a lonesome girl
Eyes that lure
Lips that kiss a Forgettable stranger
Just to try
To get all out
Guilt lodged inside my Head
All that's been Loved
All that's been lost
And the Awkward phrases that filter in.
I seek nothing short of atonement
A penance to pay that may never be Enough
I watched the sun come up on New Orleans
Reconciled my freedom to a Debt
I will never repay.
When this moment is over with nothing but
Satellites left Blinking in the midmorning sky
It is yesterday I will remember...
Vanilla and Oranges
With Black coffee at midnight.
~11/08/04