Inside Walls

Last spring I spotted a woven mesh of twigs affixed to a spot on the exterior of our dense juniper tree. I marveled at how a mother bird wedged the twigs across the opening to her interior nest as protection against invaders. I shared my discovery with my husband one morning over breakfast, “What a clever and good mother bird to weave that wall of twigs for protection.”

“Hmm,” my husband said, “I thought that the twig in her beak must have been too wide for the opening. As she tried to enter the opening into the branches toward her new nest each twig jammed into the needles and created that pattern. That’s a lot of twigs. I wonder if she ever figured it out, that those twigs were just too long.”

What I viewed as a wonderfully wise barrier was actually the work of a birdbrain doing the same ineffective activity over and over again…inadvertently creating a wall. And her nest failed to expand and thrive.

Like the mother bird, I also found myself in a new season…a frustrating season where twigs did not seem to just fall into place. And protective walls were engaged to hold onto the familiar: like rescue parenting, coaching and spousing. (That needs to be a verb.) But somehow doubt was always able to seep in through the cracks. And I retreated into my tree, into my nest.

Perhaps that was the moment, in my familiar robe and slippers, when I recalled my word for the year, willing. Have I been willing to face my defensive barriers? Have I really been willing to challenge doubt? Have I been willing to wholeheartedly receive and pass on God’s love?

On that note, my husband and I committed to a tour of Israel with a group of 150 other people at the last minute, before I could back out. That seemed to me everything unfamiliar: spontaneity, adventure just for adventure’s sake, a foreign country and language, and hanging out with strangers…touring by bus in the heat of June. I was, however, drawn to experiencing the history of my faith…something that is familiar and without doubt. Surely a visit to Israel could expand a mother bird’s brain and would reveal my willingness.

Wherever I went, I noticed walls…ancient walls in Israel and long-lasting walls that had, apparently, traveled to Israel with me. As I saw more of Israel, I saw more of me.

Walls that get buried, I learned in Israel, would eventually become a mountain. Tel is a term for a city mound; think of Tel Aviv. History told of conquering invaders leveling a city then building on top of the rubble of fallen walls. Over time the level on which the city was built rose. The buried walls undergirding the tels affected me the same way that the bird twigs punctured my perspective.

Conflict and resistance accompanied many of the walls I confronted. Four conflicting cultures divided historical Jerusalem into separate quadrants. While touring inside the walls of Jerusalem, a Palestinian passerby mumbled obscenities to our Israeli tour guide. A hawk-like vendor followed us to the steps of the tour bus, “The more you buy, the more we love you; the less you buy, the more we hate you.” Sometimes it was more comfortable to be inside the walls of the bus looking out.

The Western Wall of the Temple Mount—the Wailing Wall—being one of the most sacred sites for practicing Jews intimidated me. So divisive, as Jews—having access to the Western Wall again in 1967—oppose the Muslims, who have control of the upper Temple Mount. And more division as men separated from women into their respective prayer areas at the wall. So many unfamiliar practices to respect while advancing and retreating from the Wall itself. So many women bobbing and repeating Hebrew all around me. So much emotion through notes and prayers plugged into its crevices. Sights, sounds, smells, touch and emotions overwhelmed me at The Wailing Wall. I did not know if my small prayer for peace—facing this façade in Jerusalem, and other façades within me—could even make a difference.

One of the activities in our tour included a quarter-mile trek through Hezekiah’s tunnel, a narrow passage hand-chiseled through walls of hard rock. A quarter mile of inching forward along with the stream of people ahead and people behind. This was the first time I could actually touch walls that triggered panic in me. Having pressed through the passageway of panic, I emerged from the darkness into the light. And then I felt it…movement. It was by no means an earthquake but more like some walls had shifted ever so slightly. Warming in the sunlight, one of our tour mates confessed her own terror in the tunnel. “My feet turn red and ache when I get anxious,” she offered. I brushed some twigs from between us on the bench outside the tunnel as I scooted near her. Beyond the moment of hesitation, I reached down and lifted her red foot into my lap…and began massaging. Touching the feet of a stranger; how utterly unlike me. Could this possibly be God’s love at work…for her, for me?

Holey, Wholly, Holy

My brother was born more than 60 years ago with a hole in his heart. I do not ever recall my family being curious about the condition of my brother’s heart. “Maynard has a hole in his heart” was as common a remark as “It’s raining today”. This unexplained declaration was attached to Maynard like those annoying pillow tags that warn not to remove for fear of unknown punishment.

“The doctor said his traumatic delivery caused the hole,” my mother recently admitted. Mom remembered Maynard’s hole with guilt. My father viewed the hole as something to overcome and challenged Maynard’s small wiry frame throughout Little League. The rest of us thought our brother was fun and mischievous. But we quickly became wise to his Huck Finn charm that would often involve one of us four siblings.

Since Maynard was a self-appointed captain of baseball or tackle football in the neighbor’s yard, I would often be his first-draft choice…the youngest, and the only girl. Then he’d position me on first base or as wide receiver. How did a boy with a hole in his heart make others feel like their heart could burst?

Despite his hole or maybe because of his hole, Maynard was the first adventurous one to leave the family nest for strenuous work on a cargo ship. I was in seventh grade when he left home, not too long after our mom ran away. Maynard sent me postcards from foreign places…like Michigan and Wisconsin. One time he sent me a fancy yellow dress with a note included: “I think it’s time for you to start dressing like a girl.” With tender recollections of my eldest brother, I wore a bright yellow dress to his memorial service recently.

More than twenty years ago, Maynard and his third wife moved in with my own family for a season while my husband and I were managing a ski area restaurant. Maynard was hired as an experienced bartender…and then frantically studied in the evenings to learn how to mix drinks. Everyone in town knew Maynard the bartender. I was known as Maynard’s little sister.

Our two boys adored their uncle Maynard who teased them with his stinky feet and shoes. We would unabashedly toss his shoes outside our loft window onto the roof where they could breathe…and we could too. Amused, he snorted his nasally laugh like the cartoon dog, Muttley. A young friend once commented, “Maynard…makes me think of a mixture of mayonnaise and mustard.” Yet, Maynard’s Muttley snicker always disarmed any innocent mockery of his uncommon name. Very little would offend Maynard or his heart.

Earlier this year Maynard and I were sharing rides with one another during a visit to Florida. I was often shivering in the air-conditioned indoors and needed some kind of sweater. So we popped into Goodwill where each of us scouted for practical bargains. Maynard delighted in finding some slightly-worn dress shoes and a few name-brand shirts that golfers wear. I found a sensible green sweater and tried it on. “How does this look, Mayne?”

“It’s okay, but this time,” he said within earshot of two elderly shoppers, “I think you should pay for it instead of walking out of the store like you did the last time. Really, Kid, you need to quit doing that.” The two ladies raised their eyebrows at one another and then shot a disapproving glance toward me. Maynard strutted out of the store in his newly purchased shoes wearing a big grin. I followed carrying my sweater in a bag with my visible receipt in hand.

Through the years, Maynard and I have had many telephone conversations. It seems like we would take turns listening and coaching one another…about relationships and parenting and faith.  We communicated as equal adults, not necessarily as big brother and little sister. And it was during these conversations that I developed a curiosity about the condition of Maynard’s heart. I often wondered if the hole widened when our mother left years ago. And how does a damaged heart cope with — or even contribute to — Maynard’s multiple marriages, job-hopping, financial struggles and single-parenting challenges? But on the surface, Maynard was everyone’s friend, a caring brother, and an indulgent father. I will miss him, his humor, his thoughtfulness and our conversations.

Today I am confident that Maynard’s hole in his heart has been wholly restored…or more accurately, holy restored. However, recollections of my brother challenge me. I’ve noticed lately that I have avoided stepping into key positions—like first base or wide receiver—for several years. Like my brother’s heart, I bear scars from the past. I have been hesitant about exposing myself to the tackles and line-drives of engagement. Now, however, “I’m open! I’m open!” is directed towards God the Healer who revives what Maynard the Quarterback began. 

People of color

Others don’t often connect florescence and me in the same sentence. But I knew my little vice was outed when I received my own florescent, chisel-head, retractable tool assortment for my birthday. For me, how on earth did you know?

Hello, my name is Julie and I am a highlighter.

Adding color to my pages stirs up childhood memories of 64 sharpened crayons neatly wedged into a blue and gold box. I recall being more fascinated with the names of my Crayolas more than my artwork. Even then, color was associated with words. Colorful Crayola names contrasted the ordinariness of being a fifth child. Today my vibrant strokes across the page highlight an author’s thoughts, emotions and voice. Its as if highlighting their words embolden my own. Perhaps I would like to be more hot pink, vibrant orange, neon green, deep blue, or fluorescent yellow…every now and then.

My good friend, Pruda, is like a bright orange highlighter. She speaks rapidly, wears vibrant colors, and grabs hold of life moments as if they are her next gulp of air between swim strokes. Pruda and I met more than 30 years ago when our sons were taking their first steps. I was a first-time mother; Pruda was a seasoned mother of three. I think I saw orange streaming behind her car each time she drove her son over the mountain pass for special testing and services. She was focusing on the important stuff. I first dared to infuse with color after meeting Pruda in my twenties.

Recently Pruda recounted her father’s 90th birthday celebration. Hundreds gathered in Indiana to recognize this influential elder who had daubed indelible color into the lives of so many. Maybe orange-ness runs in the family.

  

No one in the room was more excited for Grandpa’s party than Pruda’s 32-year-old son. All the while Luciano fretted over what to say about his best friend, Grandpa. Finally, after a host of others took their turn extolling Grandpa’s wisdom and heart, Luciano and his older sister walked side-by-side to the front of the large birthday audience. Big sister spoke first: “My brother is part of Special Olympics and knows well their oath which is  Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt. Today Luciano wants to be brave. He wants to sing a song for our Grandpa.”

I was not present when Luciano remembered all the words to The Star Spangled Banner. Yet I imagined bold, sweeping orange strokes as I heard of Luciano’s courage of voice. I’m convinced orange-ness runs in that family! Choking back emotion, I packed two yellow highlighters into my carry-on for our spontaneous adventure to Israel. I challenged myself to highlight our experience with the florescent kind of bravery and impact as my young friend Luciano.

It's not about the color

A crisp, new box rests on the padded bench at the foot of our bed. This light, thin box usually remains out of sight under yesterday’s clothes or a strategically placed decorative pillow. In the quiet of my room, I have occasionally peaked inside at the sleek, shiny object within. And, at least once in the darkness of night, I dared run my fingers across the back lit keyboard. In that box resides all the juxtapositions of beginnings. Familiarity...change. Entice…dread. Advance...challenge. Play…struggle. Victory…failure.

As with the box, the walls of my home presented a similar barrier. The once vibrant red kitchen walls had dulled over time. The lackluster red was stealing the sparkle from our new granite counter tops…and me. The kitchen walls open to the breakfast nook that connects to the family room which leads to the entry with stairs that ascend to the open loft that overlooks all the rooms. Change in one space could not help but influence change in others.

A project like painting my kitchen appeared less like an indulgence and more like the box at the foot of my bed…something that intimidates, something to avoid. The curious thing is that I like to paint. I get to exact personal color preferences, stay within the lines, and isolate myself within my tiny ear buds. I felt the expanse of walls enclose me. I sucked in a big breath And I finally pushed back.

My trek to the local paint store included a kitchen cabinet door, a floor tile, a piece of counter top, and my own color flip deck with sticky dots on prospective colors. I left the store with several samples of different grays…which seemed more about my attitude than aesthetics. After painting and labeling swatches on multiple walls, I eliminated all but one. So I purchased 5 gallons of Nearly Greige.

Energized and thinking myself resourcefully clever, I mixed all the samples together and primed over the red. I did not even noticed how dark my kitchen grew as I painted on to the next wall. The mixture of sample paints oddly resembled the Nearly Greige. Once finished, I did not have to open the new 5-gallon container because I knew it would be as lifeless as the blend of samples already covering my walls.

So, it was back to the paint store where—by now—everybody knows my name. This time, I opted for the cream family and lugged home several more sample quarts. More paint patches on the wall and more scrutiny. With stubborn determination, I purchased my next 5-gallon container, Ligonier Tan. This time, volunteer painters hand-brushed and rolled over my mistake in the kitchen and the breakfast nook before noon. They would have painted the kitchen island and the entry had I not intercepted them. By afternoon sunlight, I was convinced that the peachy tan was yet another bad decision.

That night, childhood snapshots wafted through my restless sleep. I recalled finding stray coins underneath our flowered davenport cushions. Davenports—even the sound of this forgotten word—dredged up coins, childhood and hidden ways of thinking. Spare change from my father’s pockets was a rare and exciting discovery. Finding a quarter usually meant a visit to the bakery where I would stand alone in front of the display case for many minutes pondering which treat to buy. One quarter; one choice. One Christmas; one present. One birthday; one friend. One adolescence; one parent. The anxiety to choose the right one colors my nighttime dreams and my walls.

She gathered our color chips and kitchen cabinet door and moved into natural light at the front of the store. There she patiently sorted through each selection. Too pink, too green, too orange. I felt the weight of my twice-painted walls lighten as I began to trust this other person. I could tell that she could see something that I wasn’t able to. She then went to her big book and unclipped two color samples for us. I made a motion toward her private book hoping to find at least three more color sheets to supplement her two selections. With confident and gentle authority she interjected, “Just try these two; two is good for now.” 

We bought only two test samples of paint…the same two that the trustworthy designer suggested. She smiled as I left the store with my two lone samples. “It’ll be okay,” she added. Now I was convinced she saw more than just color variations. And, I detected an ever-so-slight shift with my walls, as if one of her neutral color choices could possibly make my walls recede.

We picked the warm, buttery-toast one. However, either one would have worked well, just like the designer assured us. The painting crew managed the kitchen and nook before they were called away. Our family room, hallway, entry and stairway are yet unfinished. The numerous paint patches on the unfinished walls remind me of art projects in my son’s preschool where I served as helper more than 25 years ago. The preschool teacher long ago coached me before I helped the children with finger painting: “Remember, this is not about the finished project, it is about the process.”

Perhaps my current walls have been more about the process than a perfectly painted project. I literally get to see the lingering attempts at trial and error. The process has revealed that others can be trusted, walls can be surrendered, and trial and error is not failure but integral for growth. I think that this process has also included surrendering the box at the end of my bed and trusting a son to jumpstart my trial and error on a new laptop; my fingertips are dancing over the keys as I write. And should I tackle the painting job myself, I will accept help for those hard-to-reach places.

In the details

Twenty years of use have taken its toll on our kitchen. Replacement hinges gave spring back to tired cabinet doors. A coat of Varathane protected exposed patches where cabinet finishes had deteriorated. I even scrubbed the artfully arranged vignettes of kitsch sitting atop our high cabinets. And I have contemplated which color to paint our red walls that appear to have faded into dusty rose. Anything…but a remodel. I have resisted a kitchen remodel, much like I have resisted the discomfort of change in other areas of my life. Remodeling does not come without upheaval.

I stopped by a tile store more than a year ago…just to look. Thankfully, more important life details preempted a change in tile. The last child graduated high school and launched off to Canada. Another one and his family moved 3,000 miles away. The other, also with family, has been off-and-on employed. And my father, also 3,000 miles away, has been struggling with his health. Loving diversions stretch from Orlando to Canada to Burbank.

I had tolerated and eventually adapted to problem areas in our kitchen over the years. I knew which two burners worked on our five-burner stovetop. I stopped using the island sink because the faucet sprayed everywhere and the disposal leaked. The countertop surrounding the main sink had dulled over time. The drinking water faucet dribbled more from the handle than the spout. The malfunctions and loss of sparkle stared back at me in the kitchen…and in the bathroom mirror.

And then one day in the quiet of our empty household, I allowed a glint of possibility to peek through my resistance. Somehow, this little invitation to change offered more than a fully functioning and bright kitchen. New sinks, faucets and stovetop snowballed into new countertops, a never-before backsplash and a replacement fireplace that actually radiated warmth. The options were mind-boggling. Yet I labored over each choice, one at a time.

The original ovens, microwave and dishwasher are white; they still work and I cannot rationalize changing them out. The new stovetop is stainless. And the residual radical from last year’s word shows up in the choice of muted black sinks. Something white, something black, and something stainless…kind of like the details of everyday life.

Our new countertop unites everything together visually. A geologist might call it gneiss or metamorphosed granite. The stone vendor calls it Saturnia. I call it swirls of sparkles and galaxies in the nighttime sky. I wipe up spills glancing down into the swirls of universes and see beyond the walls of my kitchen. Having reluctantly allowed this change and painstakingly selected the countertop, this was the perfect choice. What I thought my impervious universe of countertop was recently assaulted by a little spice jar slipping from my hands. A divot the size of a split pea appeared. But from my perspective, it was a celestial black hole.

I took Saturnia for granite and thought it would perform like indestructible granite. I took my mother for granted and thought that she would never leave. I took birth control for granted and thought my abortion as the freedom-of-choice solution to an unplanned pregnancy. Why did I not recognize that no material is without flaws? Why did I not recognize that my mother felt less than and many of her choices reflected her desperation for self-respect. Why did I not recognize that my decision to choose abortion more than 25 years ago had much to do with determining not to be like my own vulnerable mother? The tragedy of assumptions, flawlessness and desperation can be much deeper than a superficial divot.

Our kitchen is yet unfinished, like me. The installation of remaining counters and backsplash is imminent. Choosing the new paint color will not be without scrutinizing variations of taupe painted here and there. And the divot…it can be repaired by the Rock Doc. “You don’t need to be protective of your Saturnia,” the stone vendor assured me. “It can handle it.”

The weight of responsibility lifted from my chest and my heart relaxed into spaciousness. The lessons kept giving and my heart kept receiving. Change takes effort. Divots happen. Repairs are to be handled by someone who knows the true nature of the materials involved and is in the business of restoring what’s damaged. Thanks for the trials of change, God. You are my Rock Doc. And I don’t mind catching sight of your handprints all over my new countertop.

Radical

I choose a word for the year because one word is a simple way to keep focus throughout an entire year. I don’t know about you but my head gets full fast and it seems like I can go in all different directions as urgency presents itself. So having a word for the year helps settle me as I recall the general direction provided by my God-given word. Just having one focus word keeps me from adopting “should” goals.

I do not like to set goals. I am amongst about 80 percent of the population who cringe when the word goal is mentioned, according to author Bobb Biehl. In his book, Stop Setting Goals…If You Would Rather Solve Problems, Biehl estimates that only 15 percent of people are energized by setting goals and reaching them. The majority of us prefer to identify problems and seek solutions. Since the writing of this book, Biehl has discovered yet another small percentage of people—five percent—who are neither motivated by problems or goals but by seizing opportunities.

Since I already have my own “non-goal” word for 2011, I like to look back over my shoulder and ponder how last year’s word unfolded in my life. It’s an enlightening exercise that I recommend to all who choose a word for the year.

I could trace my 2010 word—radical—throughout the whole of last year. Radical shock waves from alcoholism, panic attacks, sexual impurity, lay-offs, joblessness, relocation, recovery, and seclusion impacted many in proximity. Radical snuck up on me while I watched digital numbers of the clock slowly click through the night. Radical taunted me while I plotted how to handle the next new crisis. Radical loaded my shoulders pulling them down. Who picked such a dreadful word anyway?

Radical knocked me down several notches so that I was on the same level with our youngest grandson. One day while talking to my daughter-in-law on the phone, 22-month-old Jackson stomped into their kitchen perfectly pleading, “Crak-kerrr, mommy, Crak-kerrr.”

“Mommy is making your lunch, Jack, no crackers.”

Distance by telephone gave me a unique vantage point. Jackson cried and whimpered in frustration, “Crak-kerrr!”  From this same vantage point, I heard an echo of my own voice whining for want I wanted, and then petulantly protesting when I did not get what was expected. But my voice was not as cute as Jack’s.

Early last year, I attended a New Life Weekend in the San Francisco Bay Area… so that I could learn how to fix a relative who was threatening my expectations. I was energized to solve her problem. I arrived with luggage stuffed full of judgment and resentment. After two days, I emptied that suitcase and returned with radically different pieces of apparel…like humility, compassion and forgiveness. Those have been well-worn outfits during my year of radical.

When Christmas rolled around, the outfits were threadbare as I suited up for our first Christmas without family. Radical threatened me again as I dredged up expectations of Christmases past. Radical accused me as we went tree-cutting by ourselves. Our past adventures into the woods had meant family, friends, picnics, hot chocolate and the thrill of finding the best tree.

The search for the perfect Christmas tree, I believe, began many Decembers ago…maybe even in my childhood where there were no forests to be found. Whatever it takes, the Voorhees get their tree…and expectations are achieved. Even despite a few permitless years—shhh—we cut our tree during the night, having our young children stand on lookout. What were we teaching them anyway?

This past December, my husband and I quietly trekked through the snow, sometimes sinking up to our thighs. It started snowing; we were cold and hungry. We settled on a tree. Radical again…one side of the tree was pretty sparse. I lugged all the sorrows of a solitary Christmas all the way uphill to the car along with this imperfect tree. The uphill trudge with tree and resentment culminated in a welcome release upon reaching the car. As I dropped it next to the car, it felt like I had let go of something else as well. We looked forward to decorating the tree together.

This time, only a wisp of radical brushed past as we hung our absent daughter’s ornaments from previous years. Our imperfect tree sparkled…and a new kind of radical glistened. Tree cutting by ourselves wasn’t terrible afterall. Christmas morning could be different. 2011 could be different. I could be different. Radical.

I recalled my daughter-in-law prompting little Jack during his cracker disappointment, “Jack, is no cracker a bummer?”

He stopped whining to give voice to a different, matter-of-fact perspective, “Bumm-merr….bumm-merr.”  And then he ate his lunch. Problem solved.

As is fitting for a problem-solver, my word for 2011 is willing. Bumm-merr was already taken.

Bee Free

Being in a foreign country and relying on public transportation, I appreciated receiving my daughter’s texted directions. You want to catch the southbound 44 on Robson and Burrard at 10:12. It will take you to the campus and you should get here around 10:45. My roommate and I will come and meet you. Her thoughtfulness came through the details.

She had taken the time to investigate my direct route to her university campus. I was to attend English class with her, another detail she had specially arranged for us. However, her follow-up text grazed the surface of my sensitive thin skin like that of a threatening bee buzzing by: Text if you get lost.

I was at the 44 bus stop early…privately smug about being early and preplanning exact coinage for the fare. Gazing out the bus window, I noted a couple of downtown shops, should we have time within the next couple of days. Text if you get lost…one bus ride, really? The bus stopped—downtown—and the driver spoke up as if making an announcement to all his passengers. Then he turned as if speaking directly to me, “Last stop, you have to get off the bus.” I turned around wondering if all the other riders were as confused as me. No one else was on the bus.

 “The university…my daughter told me…one bus all the way.” The bus driver probably heard this a lot from parents who get lost.

“You have to get off. I should be back in 10 minutes and the driver issued me a transfer slip.”

I swatted at a bee, bought a cup of tea, and sat inside the coffee shop on alert for the reappearance of the driver. I even rearranged chairs to clear my exit path so that I could bolt for the next university bound bus.

I was lucky to have the first choice of seats when he returned to the bus. Again, I was the only passenger. My new driver friend and I rounded the corner where a couple dozen people waited at the first official pick up point for the southbound 44 headed directly to the campus. Lost? I don’t think so! I took the right bus…just in the wrong direction.

Upon arriving, I embraced our daughter on her own turf of higher learning and independence with melted pride. “What are you looking at?” she asked as she shifted away and clutched at her defenses again. I wanted to jump right back into close conversation again, like the kind we had started on our return flight from her first campus visit this past spring. Mother and daughter daring to entrust one another with private thoughts…compassionately holding one another’s disclosures free from judgment. But I withheld my desire for deeper conversation with my daughter. Stupid bee, go find a flower or another bee.

For the day-and-half wedged in between her classes, assignments, and text-messaging, a couple of bees hovered about us. I remained on alert for a bee attacking my vulnerabilities: Bee devoted. Bee competent. Bee understanding. Bee thorough. Bee patient. My daughter defended against her own threatening bee: Bee autonomous. Bee forthright. Bee resolute. Bee driven. Bee resolved. Weary from being held captive by a couple of bees, we eventually chose surrender. Not in defeat but with the kind of revived strength that Beth Moore describes. “We don’t want to protect ourselves out of our callings. We want to be set free…we are not the fragile flowers we’ve considered ourselves to be. As painful as the process may be, that which shatters our superficiality also shatters the fetters of our fragility and frees us to walk with dignity and might to our destinies.”

The night before we left, we swatted our respective bees over an extended dinner and conversation. After restorative sleep I eagerly accepted my daughter’s text invitation to meet her on campus before catching an early afternoon flight home.

I caught the right bus headed in the right direction. Clackety-clackety-clackety. My roller bags broadcast my arrival to the university campus and a smiling daughter. She unabashedly held our mother-daughter hug. And the two of us spent the next couple of hours—bee free—loudly rolling along the right pathways, through store aisles and into the café...in the same direction together.

Basket Case

In our bedroom, next to my side of the bed but against the wall and purposely hidden from sight of others rests my mending basket. This is the container that holds all the projects I cannot deal with at the moment. I bought a bigger, prettier basket just last year…where I can accumulate more stuff needing attention. Interesting, how the sizeable—but attractive—basket actually intrudes into my path on my way to bed in the evening and then again when I get out of bed in the morning.

Before our daughter left for school last Fall, she plowed through my sacred basket in search of her own unmended clothes. Dismissing a silent tinge of violation, I repaired the zipper on a dress. I mended the seam in her jacket. Her leggings, it was determined, would be worn under long blouses hiding the irreparable run. She was happy to have use of these items again; I was thrilled with the newfound motivation to address other neglected projects.

She had loaned me her little black sweater for a summer wedding event. In gratitude, I vowed to get rid of its unsightly pills, evidence of it being worn many times before me. My brilliant idea to smooth the bumpy surface of her sweater involved a disposable leg shaver. But I guess it was too close of a shave when a tiny little hole appeared. In trying harder to make her sweater better, I made it worse.

Damage happens; I must try hard to fix it. That message was imprinted at the age of twelve. I didn’t shrivel up and cry through the wake of damage caused by my mother leaving. Instead, I was driven to do my part…to try hard and make it better. Some insecure walls were built upon on this damaged foundation. Later I would be the other kind of mom who repairs damage instead of causing damage. However, my own children have known their mom as one who can sometimes try too hard at improving many a little black sweater…creating little holes where none existed before.

I would be the other kind of mom who values her children instead of rejecting them. Any one of my adult children can recount how mother bear has invoked her strength of words in defense of her young. Is that not what good mother bears do? Or is that what damaged twelve-year-old daughters do? This new perception is as unusual as what our grandson describes wearing 3-D glasses at Disney World: “They make the pictures come into your eyes.” Into my eyes and into my heart, I can see pictures of a protective maternal love distorted by unmended maternal insecurities. When mother bear wanted to value and protect, her words sometimes spilled over into dishonor. And her cubs have felt rejected.

But back to my mending basket. I was ready to tackle something of my own…a dress unusable in its present state. The dress was originally costly, $150. (However, I paid $30 at a great sale…I mention this why?) Having worn the dress several times, I carefully washed it on a delicate cycle. Ugh…the dress itself shrunk almost three inches in length while the lining had not. Intending to shorten the lining, I knew the dress would still be long enough to hit my knees. I needed to redeem this dress.

I dusted off my serger sewing machine. I quickly discovered that my sight had changed since using this four-spooled machine throughout my daughter’s childhood making outfits for her or curtains for our different homes. I just couldn’t get my eyeballs—even with reading glasses—close enough to weave the imperceptible threads through the intricate places of my serger. I pushed my chair away from the machine that had served me well in the past. The serger and unmended dress remain untouched on our kitchen table for the last several weeks.

Donning my 3D glasses again, the pictures of the little black sweater, my dress and the serger are coming into my eyes. A new thought accompanied my new perspective: I cannot—nor am I personally responsible to—mend all things. Hmm...maybe it's time to purge my mending basket. Buried deep within is the damaged and neglected article I first wore when I was twelve. I think I'll mend it…no, on second thought, I’m going discard it.

Call to Grow

Letting loose—as in bathing suit audacity, launching the last child, and unleashed insecurities—is certainly loss but freedom too. There’s freedom in releasing the fears and insecurities that constrain dreams and desires. Letting loose breaks through those limitations. BIG is now a possibility with Call to Grow. Call to Grow invites all the people like me—you know, hesitant and inhibited—to tackle obstacles by taking the next step. And with each step, we remain on the alert for God’s involvement in our everyday lives. Here’s how Call to Grow works–

• 1 word – Choose one word that encompasses your focus for this season of growth

• 2sday – Call in each Tuesday anytime during a 2-hour time span.

• 3 questions – Answer 3 awareness, accountability questions each week; your responses are   documented in your private online growth journal.

• 4 weeks – Commit to a 4-week Season of Growth. (They say it takes an average of 30 days to change or create a habit.

• 5 minutes – Set aside as little as 5 minutes each week to call in or linger longer on the group call listening to the progress from fellow Growers.

That's Enough!

This last summer began with the trepidation of a two-piece bathing suit. And then August concluded with my personal challenge of letting go. I don’t know about you, but I’m noticing a bit of a shocking trend…letting loose. 

We worked up a sweat hauling our daughter’s stuff from our crammed vehicle to her first-ever dorm room, riding the elevator up six floors and then walking down. I think that’s where I left my warm, familiar mantle of motherhood…somewhere along the ups and downs in her dorm building. On the 17-hour drive home, we took a spontaneous detour to see Crater Lake. Standing on the cliff’s edge, we gazed down upon the big lake below that was created from a volcano collapsing its mountain top. Ahhh….something beautiful from a catastrophic natural occurrence. My exposed skin prickled to the icy wind portending the advent of a new season.

Had I prepared my daughter well enough? Did I do enough? Had we spent enough time together? Had I conveyed how incredibly loved she is? Did I inadvertently pass on my confrontation avoidance to her? Will she be alert when walking across the campus alone, in the dark? Will she find friendships that encourage healthy growth? With dynamic motherhood shelved like a well-worn Velveteen Rabbit, the insecurities and fears were exposed and active. Oprah takes a whole season and a worldwide audience to help her remember and celebrate 25 years of her life in television. I leave more than 30 years of mothering—joining a gazillion other empty-nesters—in quiet invisibility. Oh great, did I pass on my resentments to her too?

My last remnant of motherhood was safely miles away in her dorm and far from the epicenter of emotions when the walls of the brewing volcano collapsed inward and a deep crater was left: If I’m no longer a mother, then what IS my value? The tears and drivel spilled out everywhere.

Bing!…a text from our daughter, Thanks for all your help; I love you :)

A Smiley Face… a thousand words of meaning, never offered indiscriminately.

Allowing myself to slip back into maternal musings, I recalled our preschool grandson riding on the shoulders of his big, strong daddy as they strolled along the beach. Grampa and I were walking a couple paces behind them. Grampa couldn’t resist tickling little Ryan’s backside. The game went on for several steps until Ryan announced over his daddy’s head, “That’s enough.” And it has been the no-nonsense recollection of our little grandson that has mellowed my aftershocks.

My friend called as I was writing. We have shared many prayers for our daughters over the years. And she helped me understand my father’s dialysis as her father also had kidney failure. A few years back, I accompanied my friend through ten-weeks of Conversations on Purpose. I was privileged to first hear my fellow stay-at-home mom dream of getting involved in the medical field. “I’d like to help make hurting people more comfortable, and maybe even make them smile.” I thought she was talking about the distant future, but that very week she started volunteering at a local hospital. After several months, she stepped away from her volunteer position to attend to family matters including a son’s wedding, her husband’s back surgery, and the passing of her father. This past year my friend returned to the hospital as their favorite volunteer. As her last child graduated in spring my friend announced that she would be attending community college—her first time on a college campus—to get a nursing assistant credential. “I just accepted a job as a nursing assistant,” my friend shared, “I especially wanted you to know because you were with me when this journey began.”  I imagined water as blue as Crater Lake trickle back into my life covering some of those insecurities and fears. 

Letting go

If I don’t talk about it—or allow my mind to drift off into its grip—my resolve does not  betray me. My heart tightens as I watch her sort through new purchases for her future dorm life. I don’t cave for her sake, I think. Instead, I reflect her vibrant, orange bedroom walls back to her while she displays her groupings of independence and adventure. I’ve decided to take ALL my scarves and all my belts instead of more clothes.  I can change the look of the same outfit just with a different belt or scarf, she reasons aloud to me. I sit by my daughter on her bed and marvel at her choices…in fashion (definitely NOT from me or her dad) and resourcefulness (ahhh, something has rubbed off). I head downstairs making room for more crucial decisions about which shoes and purses warrant precious packing space.

Her imminent departure ushers in a wheelbarrow full of reflection. Did my mother choke back emotion when I headed off to college? Don’t know because she left home several years before me.  Hmmm…is that grieving or resentment? And while I’m mucking through those kinds of memories, the guilt-o-meter spikes when I drift back to my early parenting days. Our two sons arrived three years apart notching up my personal assignment, Perfect-Parent Project. One son was dutifully compliant and the other openly rebellious. I admit to missing many moments of joy and thankfulness when Compliant disagreed and Rebellious activated natural consequences. Even when number three—enthusiastic, packing daughter—was born 10 years later, I was still having to give myself permission to simply enjoy our three children entrusted to us.

I hear my daughter talking to her father upstairs,  I think our vehicle will fit what I’m taking; I’m just hoping my dorm room will fit it too. Hey Mom, come see how much I’ve packed now. I feel the weight of parental guilt lighten as my daughter calls for me, the Trying-to-Measure-Up one.

I offer the gift of a pedicure with me--my enlightened substitute for long-gone hand-holding while crossing the street. She squeezes me into her schedule before lunch with Chad, shopping for leggings, dinner with Emily and spending the night in Amy’s dorm room.
My house is going to be warm brown everywhere with some burnt mustard, and little punches of color, she remarks as she chooses a warm brown nail polish.

I’m going to miss her spontaneity, her person...terribly. The sadnesses collide as my eyes glisten up. Grandsons and their parents now 3000 miles away. Disappointments from my own childhood. The cumulative guilt of parenting mistakes. My father's advice about our kids' choices received as judgment. Our daughter going away to school in Canada.
Yes! I think my roommate likes me, my daughter beamed as she scrolled through Facebook. She wanted to invite me to her house this coming weekend before school started but knew I was signed up for the orientation for international students. I’m excited to get to meet her! (My daughter has explained to me that fun people use exclamation marks!)

I could feel the uneasiness growing from within...like a deepening sinkhole, or maybe like my heart expanding, I'm not sure.

My daughter-in-law was the first to notice. I was telling her about a new vision I have for my Call to Grow program.  I am surprised to even be considering something of this magnitude. I’m not usually one to think big, I confided.
Maybe you can think like this because your last one is leaving for her own adventure, as it should be. Maybe you're realizing that you might have space...to think beyond motherhood, my wise daughter-in-law offered.
Who would have imagined that the sorrow of letting go could possibly give way to something hopeful? We deliver our daughter to school this week. I may need a hopeful reminder when we return home...without her.

The Perfect Excuse

Sailing makes me sick…so does navigating windy roads, breathing diesel exhaust, reading in a car, or facing backwards in a moving vehicle. These activities top my Urp List. Anyone who has ever experienced nausea or motion sickness can empathetically gag with me.

I married 35 years ago romanticizing sailing as effortless gliding through calm waters. Then, I did not fully grasp that my husband was genetically predisposed to sail. For example, when he was a little boy he put two big blocks of Styrofoam between the legs of a bench, clamped an umbrella to the contraption, drug along an old oar for the rudder, and sailed along the shoreline. Over the years, the idealistic sail was rocked by shifting winds and rough waters in the boat…and out of the boat.

As soon as I could rule out pregnancy (which also made me sick), I used my motion sickness to redirect my family from any twisty-turny activities on land or water. Mother vampire guilt kicked in, “I’m sucking the life out of my family.” Thus was born my perfect excuse for sending the others off without me, “Who wants a green-faced, life-less person along spoiling everyone else’s excursion?” Whoo-hoo! I had the whole house to myself. I stayed in my pajamas till noon, snacked in bed, took use-up-all-the-hot-water showers, ate dessert instead of dinner, read till midnight, and didn’t do the dishes until the sink and counter were fully stacked with dirty ones. Pull-eeez, tell me I’m not the only woman to have perpetrated such crimes in private against her own house rules.

As in pregnancy, I eventually allowed the special indulgences afforded an impaired mother. Again, the perfect excuse was exploited when I accepted priority seating in the cockpit or the front seat of the car. I was excused from galley duty while under way or attending to children in the back seat. Uh-hum, turning around triggers nausea. And when we anchored overnight, I got the open side of the bunk opposite the claustrophobic hull.

But something was not quite shipshape…and queasiness gave way to uneasiness. Like that of a perfect storm where a “rare combination of circumstances aggravate a situation drastically”, my perfect excuse had its own collision course undercurrents. Oh good, more turbulent water stuff.

The currents underneath the perfect excuse were just as unattractive as burping up nausea. Unaware, I had “should” all over myself. I should like sailing because that’s what a supportive wife does. I shouldn’t stay at home without my family because good moms don’t do that. I should be more outgoing. I shouldn’t be so self-absorbed. I should have known better.

I could have easily been sucked into the undercurrent of shoulds with my perfect excuse had not a lifeline—in the form of a question—been tossed my way. In his book, the me I want to be, John Ortberg asks: If I walk down this road, where will it lead in the long run—toward or away from the me I want to be?

What if I didn’t need to create a perfect excuse to mask my honest preferences, dislikes, insecurities, or foibles? Sometimes, I like solitude. I love special attention from my husband and my family. I don’t like Eggs Benedict. There are actually things I love about sailing, but that’s a whole other story for another time. I can go to anxious measures to avoid hurting someone else’s feeling, or when insulating myself from others stinging me. Regret can overwhelm me when I recognize having been preoccupied with the guarding of MY time, MY talents or MY energy. Without hiding behind a perfect excuse, I am exposed and liberated for becoming God’s best version of [me], which is the rest of the title of John Ortberg’s book.

Coming to Grips with Losing Control

I’m exhausted but cannot fall asleep. The sheets are wrinkly; my legs are fidgety. And then it happens…again. My heart races. Pins–hundreds poking at the same time– radiate from low in my back up to my shoulders. I feel queasy. Am I going to lose my cookies? My leg and arm muscles tighten and I stiffen to restrain them from uncontrollable convulsing. My throat constricts. I can’t suck in enough air. I can’t breathe. Stop it! Catch your breath; at least you can do that! Then stand up, whimp! No one else hears the commands; my own voice is captive within me. The panic attack runs its course…and a different kind of journey begins.

When I went to the doctor in search of physiological answers, I wasn’t expecting her seemingly unrelated question, “What are you afraid of?” Nor was I expecting the gushing of tears. In the moment, I could no less identify irrational fears responsible for panic attacks than I could speak Chinese. However, my thought progression was sounding as unintelligible as Chinese sobbing through not having a grip on anything anymore. Panic attacks are apparently the tip of the iceberg.

I used to think that my fear list in life was short, rational, and manageable. I simply avoid the things I fear. Cliffs. Rollercoasters. Snakes. Or I work harder to prevent and control those events that could unleash fear. Noises in the night. Losing track of a child. Launching children into the unpredictable future.

As unplanned and even anticipated changes appeared, I thought I was doing a good job of managing my responses. I sorta, kinda patted myself on the back for offering helpful advice in such situations, solicited or not. Like a programmed auto response to email, I would bounce back an immediate reply. I thought I was managing the input and output, like control central.

My auto-response reaction kicked in when my daughter and I were talking about her loaning me a book she had read. “Do you think I’m beautiful?” she said as she grabbed the milk from the fridge.

Somewhat caught off-guard—yet with assurance and control—I bounced back, “Of course you are.” My maternal radar piqued as I cautioned, “Be careful about relying on your outside beauty. What really matters is what’s on the inside…you know, your thoughts behind your actions.” There, that should help.

“Do you think I’m beautiful?” she said again. Oh my, I thought, something is really prompting these insecurities. I need to reassure her. I need to do all that I can do to equip my graduating senior with self-assurance before she heads off to college.

“Your heart is where….” I start to explain before she interrupts.

“Mom, that’s the name of the book that you want to borrow.”

“Oh….right,” shrugging off disappointment in myself. Hmmpf, I did it again… jumping in to save and rescue before knowing what’s really going on. But…if I don’t step up to the responsibility I could be failing my daughter. Ultimately I could be failing God. A confident daughter would mean that I did my job well. What mothers do matters. I do what mothers do…therefore I must matter.

Days later, I heard a radio counselor ask a caller: “Do you know the real issue behind panic attacks?” No, I wasn’t the anonymous caller…because I already knew the answer. Ha! My lips formed the word just as the caller responded, “Fear.”

“Actually, it’s control, particularly loss of control,” the counselor explained.

Me, controlling? I’m the one who wants to help; I'm the one who wants to make it better. Could it be that what I think is best for others doesn’t necessarily reflect the heavy-handed stereotype of control? Could it be that I am on the brink of becoming an empty-nester? Do I think that my value is disappearing like children heading off to college or grandchildren moving across the country?

That night just as I closed my eyes, I thought I heard a whisper lulling me to sleep, “That’s not your job anymore, Julie, that’s mine. You can release them to me. And I still love you.”

Is that you, God? I'm so tired. I need sle-e....zzzz.

The P Word

"That’s quite an impressive record if you can make it through high school with all A’s," I cautioned my 18-year-old daughter as she listed the activities that would occupy another full week for her, none of which included homework.

“Really, what difference does it make anyway; this is the last quarter of my senior year?” she retorted as she flew out the door to the Humane Society. Taking a rescued dog for a hike in the sunshine was more appealing than my promptings to maintain that perfect record of A’s in her high school career.

Of course, I was advocating finishing well…or was it really about finishing perfectly?

This new quandry hit me like a powerful dose of swimming pool chemicals—called ‘shocking the water’. Maybe trying harder is not always the answer. The water was murkier than I realized.

Part of trying harder included preventing others from seeing the imperfections I couldn’t fix. Like the thick concealers I used for teenage acne, I masked what I did not want others to know about me. I wore socks to school through sixth grade to conceal the white speckles of vitiligo on my ankles and feet. I made excuses for not having lunch money. I tried harder after my mom left us, after we pooled our coins to pay for food, after we were evicted from homes, after our home burned down, and after my abortion.

“Shame can be thinly veiled by perfectionism,” the author of The Shack told his audience. The p-word seemed to fit like a tight bikini on a post-menopausal body in a fluorescent-lit dressing room. And I recalled my own maternal voice of bathing suit dressing rooms past where our beautiful, blossoming daughter tried on adorable—but tiny—bikinis, “That one is way too revealing and it’s not flattering for you.”

In keeping with my word for the year–radical–I find myself disclosing my dressing room secrets with you. The reflection in the mirror uncomfortably reveals my perfectionist tendencies. And it’s not flattering for me…nor for those I’ve misled.

So I’ve come out from behind the curtain…no, not in a bikini. The lighting is less harsh out here where honesty and authenticity are much more flattering. Splotches and mistakes are still detectable, thank goodness. They merely remind me that I am acceptably imperfect.

Express yourself

Hang out with any 4-year-old and you can observe innate giftedness in its most purest, uninhibited form.

Many, many moons ago, our adventurous 4-year-old son burst open the front door eager to run in and share his exciting discovery. "Stopp!!" I blurted out, "your feet are all muddy. Hey buddy, I just cleaned the carpets."

Excitement drained from his little body as he pouted from the doorway, "What’s moh important, cawpet or people?

Ouch…the arrow of untainted insight hit its mark. Adam is a think-outside-the-box designer today.

And just the other day I was hunched over our 4-year-old grandson wrestling with the twisted straps and latches of his car seat. Getting him and his two younger brothers in and out of their car seats is about the same complexity as launching a space shuttle. Ryan compliantly watched as I struggled to get all the latches connected. He lifted his hands to mine and stroked the backs of my struggling hands. Such a tender, sweet boy.

His little fingers tenderly traced the pronounced veins on the back of my strained hands. And then he touched the backs of his hands. He went back and forth between his perfectly smooth skin and my veiny road map a couple of times.

And all of sudden my skin felt very thin…too thin to hide my blue, bulging veins, too thin to hide my insecurities, aka my junk. What if my precious, smooth-skinned grandson doesn’t wish to have these bumpy-skinned hands wrapped around him in hugs anymore? Whoa, where’d that nonsense come from?

"Granna, he interrupted as he continued to gently stroke the back of my hand, "Why are you blue?"

Duh, I got it that he was asking about my colorful road map. But how do these 4-year-olds do that other thing….cut to the core with such innocence, with such natural expression of who they are?

I think that beginning after the age of four, we start collecting junk from the world around us. And it’s that junk that can warp our perspective and prevent us from being who we were created to be.

Believe me, I could go on about the junk we accumulate and cannot seem to discard. But I have a date with my 4-year-old grandson; he’s helping me sort through some junk.