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.

Pearls

My mother-in-law gave me The Shack for Christmas 2008. As was her resourceful style—that was lovingly appreciated—she read books before passing them on. I think it was her way of opening up more common conversation with her recipient. I read with sadness and curiosity. Sadness because we’d never get to talk about the book together; Grammie passed away two days after Christmas 2008. And curiosity from wondering what prompted Grammie to share The Shack with me?

As I drove south—remember, alone—next to the majestic snow-blanketed Sierra, I listened to the CD of the author giving explanation to his writing of The Shack. I had not realized I was so ravenous for any personal revelations until I popped the CD in for third time, kind of like popping in a couple of carob malt ball, and then suddenly I'm at the bottom of the empty bag.

Could it be that this author's experiences leading up to his own shack held nuggets of truth for me as well? The messages were precious, like tiny, aged pearls from Grammie’s jewel box. The author simply strung the pearls together for me. And it’s as if God now has this elegant strand of smooth pearls draped over his outstretched palm waiting for me to accept it.

I’m undecided if I’m the kind of woman who can pull off pearls.

If Grammie thought so and if God thinks so, maybe I can at least try on some pearls and see if they're right for me.

Road Trip

Things I rediscovered about taking a road trip by myself--

• II can listen to a speaker's message...for many, many miles.
• And I can re-play a podcast or CD...several times to have the words really soak in.
• I can record my thoughts on my iPhone...private thoughts. (Thanks Jim, for introducing me to that App.)
• Tears can spill and I don't have to explain them.
• I can pass the slow drivers...without any outside prodding.
• I can sing along with the radio...loudly.

Every now and then, it's good to let--(cough) get--the real Julie out.

Word for the Year

In his book, Walking with God, John Eldredge, titles a section, The Power of the Right Word. Here he mentions choosing a word for the year, "I was asking God this morning what His word for the new year was [for me], if He wanted to say anything about that, set a sort of theme for this year..."
How cool is that? John the author—my new bff even if though he doesn't know it—does this word for year thing too. Great minds...
Your own selection process and your resulting word for the year has the potential to influence your mindset for an entire year. One word can keep you alert to each day where you can create it, discover it or resist that which threatens it. “Maybe it’s even at the heart of the life [you] want to live, the source out of which all else flows.” says Eldredge of the right word. 

Silly me thought I heard the whisper of a word…that frankly has me digging in my heels. Radical???

C’mon…..really, God? You know me, I’m SO NOT radical in any way, shape or form. And I don't prefer to be radical either. I must have misunderstood. Maybe Jackson (pictured above) and I were given the same word. Ravenous….radical, they kinda sound alike, right? Oh yeh, Jack and I could easily do ravenous.
No, Julie, your word is radical.
And Jackson’s mom assures me that 2010 is already manifesting ravenous as Jack yearns to eat, learn and scale everything!
Sooo, I'm ever so slightly challenging my color-inside-the-lines, play-by-the-rules familiar approach. Recently I came across the term "outrageous compassion". Outrageous….radical, they mean the same thing to me. Maybe, just possibly, I could kind of begin to imagine something like radical compassion, or radical love, or radical personal growth during 2010. Whoa….radical.