Lieutenant Dan!!!!!!!

 

Running my own company has been the most difficult thing I have ever tried to do. I hide most of my heartache about it, except from my 200 closest friends. I am definitely one of those where for the most part, according to Facebook, I have the picture-perfect life. But behind the scenes, I am often crumbling.

When I broke off from my brother’s company in 2016, I felt like Alice falling down the eternal rabbit hole. I was scared out of my mind. And when I am scared, I often turn to the wrong things – and it ain’t Jesus. My blood pressure skyrocketed. I ended up in my doctor’s office, curled in a little ball in the corner; she turned off the lights and just let me try to find myself while she went and saw other patients. This was when I was first prescribed medication for anxiety. My, how those sweet little, tiny pills have saved my life.

Over the next 4 years, I saw 3 AM more often than not. In 2017, my CPA made a $500k error that I struggled to recover from. I am actually still recovering from it. At one point I consulted with a bankruptcy attorney but chose not to declare. Cash flow has kicked my ass. There are weeks when I do not know how we will survive, but we always seem to, somehow. Recently I discovered one of my employees was embezzling from me throughout this entire time. And another pursued me to try to bankrupt me on purpose. The sense of betrayal has been a force to be reckoned with.

There have been so many times where I have considered giving up, but when I consider what else I could do, I cannot think of anything else I want to do. I love what I do. And I am good at it – except the cash flow part. I have prayed so many times over the past few years to God to let me know if this is not what I am supposed to be doing with my life. I continually get the unspoken affirmation that I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. “But God, why are you making it so hard?” It seems I can never catch a break, and I am just so tired of struggling. I have struggled to see God’s purpose. I feel like I have a target on my back. Is it a punishment? All around me, I see people succeeding, while I am failing.

In this journey I have learned some recovery speak, as my pastor calls it. I am sure most people have heard, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.” Another is, “Let go and let God.” I have tried so, so hard to turn my burdens over to him. In my mind, I visualize physically giving them to him, along with my anxiety. Yet it does not work - the next 3 AM comes along, and there I am again, brain spinning. Yet every day brings new blessings and mercies, and every day I survive that day.

I worry my expressing this will make me look weak. Maybe I am weak. I constantly ask myself what is wrong with me. I am smart, educated, capable, kind, generous – but life just keeps kicking my ass, over and over and over again. There has to be purpose in it, surely. So I search myself – what is the lesson I am supposed to learn in this? What am I not grasping? What am I supposed to be doing?

There have been times I have been angry with God, but then that faded away. Obviously, I have something to learn. I trust Him in that, even though I do not understand what it is or why it has to be this way. I can see my blessings and have gratitude – a beautiful daughter, a house, pets, a sense of humor, an amazing support system filled with tons of friends. I can see all that and I can appreciate it.

I realized yesterday that I have mostly stopped waking up at 3 am. I guess some might say I have become resigned to my fate. That’s true – somehow, I have accepted it. The world might take that as a negative, a loss of hope perhaps, but it is not that. It is actually a well seated knowledge that no matter what happens, I will be okay. I am taken care of. I trust in God that whatever the path is, He is going to be there with me. “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” I do not know when it happened, but at some point I transferred a good amount of my anxiety burden over to him – maybe just in the action of trying to turn it over so many times, maybe each time I tried He took a small percentage of what I was handing Him. There is an eerie, exhausted peace in the wake. Sure, sometimes I take it back – but it is not every 3 AM anymore.

This morning’s sermon felt so spot on for me. Our pastor spoke about Peter, who bumbled everything. He was outspoken and arrogant, always putting his foot in his mouth. After Christ died, he chose to go back to fishing, because that was what he knew – it was his career – it was what he was good at. He was disillusioned with the fact he had spent the last three years of his life following someone who he thought was God, but who was now dead. As he casts his net, he catches nothing. I so know that feeling – the despair, the self-criticism, the shame. Then some dude shows up and tells him to cast his net on the other side of the boat, and they get more than they can handle. Peter realizes it’s Jesus and pulls a Forest Gump when he saw Lieutenant Dan on the boat dock.

Peter had denied Christ three times prior to his death. As Peter sits with Jesus on the shore over a fire, sharing a meal of fish (where did Jesus get those fish?), Jesus asked him exactly three times if Peter loves Him. Peter gets insulted because Jesus keeps asking. I know the story well, but I have never noticed it was three times to match the three denials. Peter was a hot mess, yet God built His church on him. Peter was ready to give up. Peter was dead wrong. Peter was weak.

It just fit. I am that. This is me.

An Excerpt on the Church and Divorce and Grace

I woke up before the alarm went off, but only by 15 minutes. I glared at my phone and resented it. I contemplated strongly turning the alarm off and rolling back over and going to sleep. Today was the first time in a week I’d slept in my own bed, and it felt good. Not only that, after a weeklong ski trip and traveling all day the day before with a family of five, losing one hour due to time zones and another hour to Daylight Savings, I felt totally justified in going back to sleep. I also knew no one but me wanted to wake up and go to church – it would be a fight all the way – and I really didn’t want to go either.

When the alarm went off, I only hit snooze once, and grudgingly rolled out of bed and sent the family down the It’s Time To Get Up and Take A Shower and Get Cute No Writing on Your Shirt You Have to Look Decent Put a Smile on Your Damn Face No We Don’t Have Any Groceries Hurry Up So We Can Buy Donuts Trail. By the time I walked into church, maybe I was ready to pick a fight. I started thinking about an email I’d sent to someone asking them to make our blended family correct in the computer system, and I was guessing no one had fixed it. When we went to sign the girls in, my suspicions were confirmed, but the youth pastor was standing there, so I casually mentioned that our family needed fixed in the computer system, and that I had sent an email. He knew JUST who I needed to talk to, and summoned her right that second. We all stood around while I explained that Edith and I had come here years ago and decided not to make this our church hoe, and now we had decided to come here, so everyone but Edith was under one family, and she was under another. Some jokes were made – it was actually fun and funny – and we were promised that it would get fixed. On the way up to the sanctuary, two people said “Hi” to us, and I thought, this might be getting better (we have only attended this church since August). It felt good.

But then, as we sat in the pew, and praise and worship started, I started wondering what those people down at the kid check in thought about us now. Obviously, we were remarried. So obviously, we are probably divorced – maybe widowed – but probably divorced. And it was like in that moment a huge scab was yanked off of a huge wound, and my tears started just flowing, and I could not stop them. My brain started sifting through all the painful memories, one after another. My heart cried out to God, “God, I am so tired of being rejected by Your Church. Why do You let Your Church reject me?” And I heard or knew or felt God in the very heart of my soul, and knew that He does not reject me. Jesus loves me, this I know. I said, “I know God. I know you accept me. But Your Church rejects me, and it hurts.”

I’m going to tell you about a few of my memories that my brain sifted through. This is not to throw anyone under the bus, but just to explain. In that moment this morning, I knew I was going to blog about this. Why? Not for attention, not so that I would be accepted at my church (I probably actually already kind of am), but hopefully to (A) let people who feel the same way know that they are not alone and (B) maybe raise a little awareness to people who have never been divorced of how much their judgement hurts.

I found myself going through a divorce at 21. It was a mistake. My dad told me not to do it – my best friend told me not to do  it – but I was stubborn and hell bent and wrong. A lot of what was fueling me was being raised in the church, and knowing that sex outside of marriage was a sin. 11 months later, I was in a world of hurt. I knew that divorce was a sin – not only a sin, but an unacceptable sin – and I believed I had to decide between divorce or death, because I could not live with where I was. I’m not going to get into all the nitty gritty, but for a while I chose death as my way out of my marriage. With some help and soul searching and a little medication, I wrapped my head around choosing divorce instead of death. It was a hard fight.

I went in to tell my childhood pastor – not only my pastor, but my swim coach, a father figure, my employer (I babysat his kids for years) – what I had to do. I felt I owed it to him to tell him, since he had married us. He made it clear that day that if I did not stay in the marriage, I was not going to Heaven. I tried to tell him this was life or death, but he argued yes, it was more than life or death – it was Heaven or Hell. After I had some time for this to settle in my heart and mind, I finally came around to the conclusion that if that’s what God was – if that’s what Heaven was – I didn’t want it anyway. I rejected my faith. Honestly though, my faith had already rejected me, or so it seemed.

(Years later I revisited this church and talked to the pastor. He was cold like a fish when he shook my hand. I decided to write him a letter and begged him to tell me that I had misinterpreted his rejection – to please tell me that I had been a child and misunderstood him. I told him how much the rejection had hurt me. It was a letter that was never answered.)

Fast forward four years. I met a pastor and somehow I was just drawn to him. We started conversating about God and church and rejection and faith. He talked me into giving church a try again, once I moved to Texas. He also asked me not to tell anyone that he talked to me or met with me – which was a huge red flag that I ignored. My heart started to heal, I came back to church; I even started teaching Sunday school. And then again, short version here, but he told me that he was going to leave his wife and reverse his vasectomy, and we were going to get married and have children and this was God’s will for our lives. Again, my world spun all over the place. I quietly finished teaching the Sunday school year (there were only a few weeks to go anyway), and left the church. Again, feeling very done with church and God and faith.

I got married again. I did not marry a believer. I wasn’t sure I was one at that point myself. I got divorced again. If you think I felt like a failure after one divorce, I felt like the scourge of the earth after two. What is it, “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me?” I mean, there’s just no excuse for that!!! But again, I found myself making a choice between what was likely leading to death or divorce. Maybe that’s dramatic – maybe it wasn’t leading to death – but maybe it wasn’t dramatic and maybe it was – I decided not to continue to find out. I had a child to protect, a child that was my entire world. During this time, I got convicted about her not being raised in the church. We started shopping churches and finally found one I fell in love with. At first I was just going for her, because I knew that I had already made choices (twice now) that made Heaven not available to me.

Slowly, this church taught me about grace. I had heard the word grace, but I’d never really understood what it meant. It took me months of intense conversations with the pastor to wrap my brain around grace – I had definitely always been firmly footed in legalism. Grace is getting something we don’t deserve – forgiveness in my case. I cannot explain how life altering this was when I finally understood. I had great healing. For a while I felt accepted, kind of, mostly. Kind of depends on who, honestly. I was the only single parent I knew of in the entire church, and that felt ostracizing. I’ll never forget taking a parenting class – I was all excited about meeting some other people with kids my age and getting to know them – and on the day of class realized there were twenty-ONE participants. One guy gave me some compassion and said he admired me as a single parent and that someone should mow my lawn or something, but no one ever did. It was a nice thought though.

In this church I wrestled with God about re-marriage. I can tell you I know every verse in the Bible upside down and backwards about what the Bible says about divorce and adultery. I have read blogs and articles, aside from the Bible itself, and sought council from a few men of God whom I respected. I can even make a strong case that the Bible never says that divorce is a sin (GASP). I can also make a strong case that remarriage is indeed adultery and adultery is sin (GASP from the other side). There are a lot of opinions and arguments on both sides, but at the end of the day, what it really boils down to is that it’s between me and God. Or you and God. Whatever, you know what I mean. After years of wrestling (and celibacy -  TMI I know), I decided that I was going to remarry. At first, I didn’t know who, but I decided (with God) that I was going to remarry. I finally rolled with 1 Corinthians 7:8-9 which states “For it is better to marry than to burn with sexual desire.” I went through one relationship in the process that was a Complete Wheels Come Off the Truck Blow Out. A Blow Out that happened before marriage, praise be to God.

But during that Blow Out, I found The Limit of (my Church’s) Grace. Getting remarried was a sin, and my pastor would not perform the ceremony. I was devastated – I thought of him like a 2^nd father. We were very close – very good friends. Now, I understand his side, and I’m not throwing him under the bus. He believes remarriage is a sin, and it goes against his beliefs, and he does not want to be a part of committing that sin. I get it – my brain gets it – my heart was shattered though. When I finally did find my spouse, and we decided to get married, I had to leave that church – the church where I had found so much healing and learned about what grace was had ultimately rejected me, and my new spouse, without ever even meeting him. I realized bitterly that they probably had rejected me all along, and I just wanted to believe that I was accepted. That’s harsh though – the truth is probably somewhere in the middle – part of the church’s people loved me unconditionally for who I was and part of them judged me.

So that was all what was circling my brain this morning and I could not get it to stop. The kind lady behind me handed me the Kleenex. That’s when you know it’s bad! “God, Your Church HURTS. I know you want me to be here, but I don’t want to be today anyway.” I just knew that either the sermon was going to be tailor made for me today and it was going to have nothing to do with me today. Because that’s how sermons work on days like this.

The sermon was about lepers and tax collectors and Roman centurions, and how Jesus loved them. Divorcees were never mentioned specifically. (Sidebar – it reminded me of a sermon I heard years ago where the pastor said that Jesus loves all sinners – “even murderers and rapists and divorcees” and I thought to myself oh my oh my oh my. I’m in quite the company!!!) It was about inclusiveness.  The leper in Matthew 8 was completely shunned by society – Jesus touched him and healed him and made him feel included instead of shunned. Then the Roman centurion asks Jesus to heal his servant just by the power of his words alone, and Jesus says he has greater faith than anyone in Israel (including the Jews). And the verse I loved the most this morning was Matthew 9:13. “But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ I have come not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” Jesus loves me. Jesus wants me. And His Church should spend some time learning “what this means.”

BAM.

It really was an amazing sermon, and one I needed to hear. If you need to hear it too, I’m sure it will be available at www.rcnb.org sometime soon (March 8, 2020). It was not about divorce. But it was about inclusiveness and dropping your judgments at the door.

I do have to say that through all of this, I have learned so much, and God has softened my heart. I don’t think without going through this personally that I would have ever wrapped my heart around LGBT issues within (and with-out) the church. I will not get into all of that, but this group is also rejected very strongly by a huge portion of the church, and it isn’t right. It isn’t Christian. And we should knock it off.

That was my little LGBT soapbox.

Our church says every Sunday, “We are badly broken. We are deeply loved.” That is very true. I know this is true. I want this to be true. But I’ll be honest, I have a hard time trusting that. I generally hold back now more and more in religious settings, even though that isn’t my nature. When I do reach out, I often feel rejected. I know my life choices are obvious and not acceptable to many. I read rejections probably often where it isn’t – I know that. But I also have felt firsthand open, blatant rejection, so I am highly attuned to it.

I write this not for sympathy. Again, I hope through my story that others in my shoes find some solidarity. And I hope others not in our shoes can re-examine the love of Jesus Christ. 

Disclaimer. The image I used is taken off of the internet and is in no way mine. I cannot draw, let alone do computer graphics. It is an image of The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and I feel that I am wearing one often when in a church setting! I might get one made ha ha ha.

Travelers Guide to How Not to Do a Big Bend Vacation, or Memoirs on How I Finally Found the Edge of My Husbands Patience

I find there are two types of people in this world – I call them Planners and Wingers. I am decidedly a member of the Winger clan, taking life as it comes at me, with a slight bend in my knees. I also have a love of travel though, which requires some level of planning on my part. Honestly, I have not found it to be totally overwhelming – I generally get the general gyst planned out – a place to stay, something to drive, a few things I would like to do – and then let the rest happen in Winger fashion. 

This does lead to some unfortunate events – like arriving at the San Jose Airport at 4 am with a husband and two children and all of our luggage, and discovering, after dropping the rental car keys into the unmanned box, that we were really supposed to be at the San Francisco Airport. Whoops. My husband is amazingly patient in this (as he should be, since he doesn’t plan these trips either). I was blown away in San Jose when he just said, well, call the Uber. I had braced myself for a tongue lashing at least – that’s what I’m used to in past relationships – but it never came. I married a saint.

So Big Bend. I’ve taken the kid(s) to all these national parks all over this beautiful country of ours – Glacier, Yellowstone, Rushmore, Denali, Yosemite, Joshua Tree, etc, but we never visited the ones in our backyard. It seems a shame. Edith and I had camped on the back side of Big Bend with my Rotary group when we went on a mission trip to Mexico a few years ago, and it was indeed beautiful, in a desolate cowboy sort of way.

We actually know the head park ranger (Keith) at Big Bend and his wife. I asked her about coming out a couple years ago, and she said not to come in the summer – it’s just too hot. So Thanksgiving came around this year, and I thought to myself, let’s go. I contacted her again to try to get the low down. This is how I discovered that there is a Big Bend State Park and a Big Bend National Park – who knew? But no worries, I pulled out the map, and they actually touch – like, overlap even. The National Park camping was all full, but Keith found us the very last spot at the State Park and we I booked it. He was super excited about the location. He did warn me it was primitive  there wasn’t any water or electricity at the site, but he said we could schlep in some water. I laughed in the face of primitive. He laughed at me when I said we were going to pack everything into the Jeep – he insisted we would want a trailer. I insisted we didn’t need a trailer, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought I should trust the Park Ranger over my naïve self who has never been to Big Bend nor ever done primitive camping. I rented a U-Haul.

I ran a half marathon on Saturday. That should have some foreshadowing all of it’s own – nothing good ever happens after running a half marathon. We spent all day Saturday getting the trailer and packing. I asked Alice’s little friend Ellie if she wanted to go with us – she had never been camping at all in her entire short life. Since we had the trailer we threw in everything – and still only used about 1/3 of that trailer. We even took the dog, against Cory’s better judgment. We meant to leave at 7 am on Sunday, and left by 8. Which really isn’t too shabby, with all these people I live with that have no concept of time.

I had always heard Big Bend was 8 hours from us. Well Big Bend STATE Park is more like 10. It is southwest of us, and both of our map programs took us in the west entrance of the state park (all the way around). I always think the map knows something we don’t know, so I don’t worry about it too much, nor did I give it much thought. The trip was pretty okay – fun even – and our spirits were joyous as we got closer and closer to our destination. I wondered if we’d have time for a hike before dinner? At 5 pm, our map and all the signs took us down a gravel road. This was the first sign of discontent, as Cory mutters to me, “You are shitting me, right?” I was a little shocked. According to the map and various Google searches, we were now going to travel 60-90 minutes to get to the park entrance on what was indeed, a gravel road. All there is to do is to forge ahead at this point. And 60-90 minutes while annoying with gravel fog surrounding your vehicle and your tires crunching so loudly you can hardly think, is not the end of the world. I think at this point I realized there would be no hike before dinner. During this 60-90 minutes we lost cell service, which we had expected. I occupied myself with following our little dot on the map program and very much looking forward to the entrance popping up on the horizon any moment now, that never seemed to come.

We came to a sign on the right hand side – a map - at about 5:45. It was not grand – it was not what I thought we were driving toward. No ranger station. We just sat there for a few minutes, befuddled. Finally, with an impending sense of doom, I got out of the car and studied this map. Apparently, the park ranger station was another 45 minutes or so in front of us, and closed at 6:00. Two other stations closed at 4:00. If we wanted to, we could camp here for the night, but we could not have a fire. I prayed for a bar of service and dug in my email and found out our camp site was named “Panther Javelin.” Staring at the map, south of the ranger station, I found an area that said Panther Creek and some camp sites with the name Javelin in them. I didn’t see “Panther Javelin” per se, but I was pretty sure, after scanning the rest of the map with no relevant names, that that must be our destination. I took a picture of the map. (THANK GOD, as we soon lost all service entirely).

Cory was not pleased when I cheerily informed him that I had found the camp site, the ranger station was closed, and it was for sure another hour of driving. At this point, we were racing the clock of the sun going down, and knew we still had to set up camp.

As we drove, the road conditions deteriorated. It really wasn’t a big deal with the Jeep, but the U-Haul trailer had an estimated 5” of clearance at the axle. Somewhere along this road I discovered with my one bar of service that it really is not recommended to come to the park at this time of year and that there was no guarantee at all of the road condition. I decided to keep this nugget to myself. I also think it was along this road that Cory first started mentioning leaving first thing in the morning. Leaving???? We had not even gotten there yet, and he’s talking about leaving? I ignore that, and focus on the task at hand – arriving.

The drive was pretty. The sun was setting, against our wishes, and it set off a beautiful display of lights, shimmering through rock formations that were unlike anything I had ever seen. I refrained from asking to stop to take pictures. The car was pretty quiet – tension was brewing. But we were almost there and all of this would soon be behind us. I also remembered Keith warning me it was primitive, but I shooed those thoughts from my mind. 

At 6:30 pm or so we came to a fork in the road where the ranger station should be. According to my calculations, at this fork we should hang a right. The issue was there were two “roads” to the right – or a dry creek bed and a road – or two dry creek beds. By taking a left we went around and found the now closed ranger station. We were ready to be done. It didn’t help any that there are cabins and bunk beds at this location – that were not for us. We drove back around to the creek bed road enigma. Cory parked the car and we walked down both for about 100 yards. It looked pretty sketchy. We were not speaking at this point, unless we had to. I was of the fake it till you break it mentality – everything always works out in the end Pollyanna mode - and Cory was in the what the hell was I thinking when I married this girl mentality. We were definitely in different places. The biggest concern, aside from getting stuck or flipping the car or being held at knife point by drug smugglers or something crazy like that, was just taking the wrong road and then having to drive in reverse with that trailer on. Impossible. So we stood at the impasse. I didn’t think it looked that bad. Cory thought I’d lost my mind.

Suddenly, a couple pulls up in a white truck. They needed fire wood – we informed them the ranger station was closed. We told them our predicament about the roads. The husband offered to drive Cory down a ways in his truck to see how bad it was. I was relieved. For what seemed like an eternity, I waited with the wife and three girls in the jeep, in the middle of nowhere, trying not to think about serial killers and illegal immigrants that might be creeping through the bushes. Finally, the guys returned, with the prognosis that it was indeed a road (the one I thought, for the record) (I love being right) – and it wasn’t that bad. I was so relieved! We only had to go 5 miles down this road, and we’d be at the camp – maybe – if I was right about that being our camp. I kept my uncertainty to myself as much as I could. You have to say a little in case it turns out to be a disaster later.

The first couple of miles were okay. Not great. Okay. After two miles we came to a set of camp sites, and this was about half way. In hind sight, we should have camped here. But we were so close at this point, and the road wasn’t that bad – we both thought so. So we plodded along. It was now 8 pm and completely pitch black. I was beginning to see that there would be no dinner.

The road turned into what I can only describe as hell. I can still see it in my mind – but I don’t know if I have the words to tell you how bad it was. Without the trailer, it would have been terrible. With the trailer, it was absolutely ridiculous. And we were now committed – we could not go in reverse. There were ruts the size of the Grand Canyon – okay, I’m exaggerating with that – but they were gihugic. I am now seeing my husband truly angry for the first time in our marriage. He’s not really saying much, but there’s this glow coming off of him, and not a happy glow either. I’m clutching the Oh Shit Handle and praying quietly but fervently with white cramping knuckles – “Please Lord, let this be over. Please Lord, keep us safe. Please Lord let us get out of this alive. Please Lord, don’t let him kill me in front of the kids.” 

Ellie had had to pee for two hours now, on the bumpiest “not roads” in America. There was no convincing her to pee outside – she never had, and she was not starting now. She was insistent she would wait for the camp site, which we feel fairly strongly about it should have at least an outhouse. Even Alice was saying, "Ellie, you might as well just pee. We won't look." But Ellie was not having it.

OH I forgot to mention about two hours ago those three darlings were listening to Hamilton for the 16,849^th time, and Cory had told them to turn that shit off. You can only take so much “1776” and “Eliza” while back roading in what is not Big Bend National Park. The kids are at this point pretty quiet – you could almost forget they are back there. Cory and I are talking in bullet points now. “I think that’s the road.” “No, it isn’t.” “We’re leaving in the morning.” “Can we talk about that later?” “We’re leaving.” “We’ll talk about it later.” “We’re leaving.” SILENCE. And suddenly Alice says, “Are we going to die? I want to go home!”

I think we both realized at that point we needed to stop fighting. It was a weird fighting. Full of silence and tension with a smattering of rifle shots, I mean conversation. We were at a junction where we didn’t know which of two choices was the road again. We reassured Alice we were almost there and everything was going to be okay, and then both exited the Jeep with flashlights (one flashlight, one phone) and decided to again walk down these two road creek bed thingies to see which one looked more likely. I was a little scared for my life – a little – I don’t think my husband appreciated my presence or existence even at all in these moments. I truly felt awful – I had not done any of this on purpose. At all. I thought I had even got sound advice.

Outhouse or no outhouse, I decide that the next wide spot in the road, we are camping. I cannot take any more of this. The road splits all out again – this time there seem to be roads in every direction. I take my flashlight to the right, C

ory goes left. It’s not “our camp site” but it is A camp site. I tell him I think we should just camp. He tells me we are leaving first thing in the morning. I am starting to want to choke him. I announce to the children that we have arrived! I hand them some paper towels and wish Ellie good luck on her adventure of peeing outside for the first time ever.

It goes on. That was the worst of it, but not the end of it. We set up camp, we cooked. My foil packets actually did work, which was a huge win, but the girls were pretty asleep when dinner was ready. And we did, indeed, leave first thing in the morning. Not to go home, but to another camp site, and another dirt road, at dark. Also, at some point I realized that while the state park and the national park do all but overlap, the only entrance and exit for the state park is out the west side, down 60-90 minutes of gravel, and the national park is to the east. They are about as close to each other in reality as New York is to Delaware.

But I was happy, in hindsight, to find the edge of my husband’s patience. Boundaries, even ones out in the great deserts of Texas, are good to establish and know. Ellie hates camping now, but she still comes over to play from time to time. The kids let me know it was the worst trip ever, and it really hurt my feelings. I teared up. Cory said, “Don’t listen to them. I had a great time,” as he grabbed my hand and squeezed it reassuringly (we were on a paved road when this happened).

Oh, and the view I had at 6 am one morning, when I’d climbed a little hill to pee in peace, was absolutely fantastic. I don’t typically think of deserts as amazing or beautiful, but that morning it was simply glorious.

And in that moment, I was glad we came.

Help! My Magnum Opus Is Eating Me Alive!

I don’t usually lose it, but when I lose it, I lose it. I was sitting in J’s office, destroying his Kleenex supply. “I feel like I’ve created a monster. I keep trying to feed it whatever I can to satisfy it, and it only seems to get bigger, and demand larger feedings. I’ve given it everything I have – my retirement, my relationships, my home equity, and it eats everything and wants more.”

“And now it’s eating you.”

Yes. Now it’s eating - destroying - me.

Exactly.

Is it me? Am I not good enough? Smart enough? Strong enough? I ask these questions aloud, not falling on deaf ears. He says I’ve let this thing I created define who I am – and I need to step back, and remember who I am, apart from what I’ve built. I understand conceptually, and I actually have thought of this before, but I struggle with separating myself from my business. My self-worth rides the roller coaster of our accounts payable and accounts receivable. When it’s good, I’m queen of the mountain, when it’s bad, I’m a failure.

August is historically the worst month of the year in Texas for the roofing industry, and by the end of August I was a puddle of goo. And not good goo, either. This was now mid-September.

Who am I without it? Who am I? These are the questions I left needing to answer. J strongly encouraged me to try to put some space between myself and my business. But first I had to meet an insurance adjuster.

I didn’t know where to go, after I finally got off the roof 3 hours later with the Slowest Insurance Adjuster Alive. He was an analytic with a torn meniscus, communication through an All State desk agent, using an overheating phone. The good news was, he covered the roof and I finally could go to find a bathroom. I wanted to drink, but instead I found myself, with my dog, laying on an abandoned concrete staircase behind the AA building.

I cried. I blew threw the napkins in my glove box, pun intended. My dog didn’t seem to be concerned – she just waited very patiently for three hours until I finally told her it was time to go.

Who am I? How do I separate that from what I’ve built?

I walked into church two days later, without any answers really. The good news is, I was at a good place for answers, if I can just make myself pay attention. The music soothes me. I close my eyes and fall into it, trying to forget - forget where I am, how I feel, I lose myself in order to find who I am.

“I’ve heard a thousand stories of what they think you’re like

But I’ve heard the tender whispers of love in the dead of night

And you tell me that you’re pleased

And that I’m never alone

“You’re a good, good father

It’s who you are, it’s who you are, it’s who you are

And I’m loved by you

It’s who I am, it’s who I am, it’s who I am.”

The tears cascade down my cheeks. I turn away so that my husband can’t see, not caring who else does. I’m listening, I’m listening with all I have.

The pastor opens with talking about the Mona Lisa being DaVinci’s life work and East of Eden being Steinbeck’s. I really liked East of Eden – I start trying to remember what it’s about – I read it a long time ago – I should reread it. I would think Grapes of Wrath was the Magnus Opus…. I forcibly bring my mind off the rabbit trail and back to the pastor’s voice. These are their Magnum Opus – their life’s work. I always thought I’d be a writer – I had hoped a novel would be my Magnum Opus – but instead it’s a roofing company, and it’s apparently eating me alive.

I again reach out and drive my brain back to the sanctuary, back to his voice. We, mankind, are God’s Magnum Opus. I make a wisecrack in my brain, but then I focus on what he said instead of my own self-deprecating puns. That’s who I am – I’m a creation of God. An On-Purpose-Creation of The Force That Created the Entire Universe. That’s a pretty big thing to be, really.

A verse comes on the overhead projector – I know this verse! I wrote a poem about it that I never finished. I fish out my phone, searching my notes file. There it is, there’s the poem. This has to be important, I think, but I don’t see how. My mind fades in and out and up and down for the rest of the sermon.

We are Jars of Clay, May 2019

I read a verse that says

We are jars of clay

I thought of a mason jar

With clay inside.

The clay is soft and malleable

Easily beaten down by outward forces

Easily dried out

The glass jar, while almost invisible

Protects the clay

I felt protected suddenly

But it means the opposite

The jar is made of clay

And we are the jar

Shaped from the earth

Of the dust

Fragile, very

Easily broken

Not permanent

And we house a treasure

That is eternal and perfect

And will last long after

The jar returns to its dusty state.

Me, it reminds me of an old album cover

The Jar of Flies

I remember it had little flies

That slid about inside the plastic CD cover

I used to wonder how they put them in there.

I am a Jar of Flies

When I am in a panic

I exhale slowly

And I see little gnats come out

Of my soul

I’m in the Green Mile

And the demons are exiting my lungs

It is not a holy image, my Jar of Flies.

That I am the opposite of holy.

I breath the flies out, the demons I house.

It is now a week later, and I am finally writing this out. I lack the bow for the top of this writing. The accounts payable and the accounts receivable have both decreased, and thus with them so has the crisis of my soul. While I should feel better, I somehow feel even more exposed and vulnerable. Maybe like Jonah, hiding under a withered plant leaf, smelling like whale barf.

My company is not my Magnum Opus. I’ve made it that, but it isn’t that. My brain keeps nagging, whispering that I’ve made a False Magnus Opus. That’s likely the take away from all of this, although I am certain it is a vital part of my life work and where I am meant to be, right now. It is not a mistake. It’s not a misguided mission. I am not in the wrong place, and my story is not over. It is not time to give up, but rather it’s time to dust myself off, once again, and move forward into the next chapter.

And I should stop feeding my Magnus Opus Monster.

The End of the Symphony

Sometimes my phone rings and it isn’t you.
You didn’t call again today.
For a few moments, it hurt more than it hurt in the moment just before;
I didn’t know that was possible.

I saw you recently.
Your eyes looked through me like I either wasn’t there, or like I was too there.
One of those.
I didn’t know what to do
So I didn’t do anything
My eyes hit the floor and my entire being felt uncomfortable.
Even with the benefit of hindsight now
It isn’t any clearer, what I should have done

I thought our love was deeper than this insurmountable abyss.
I thought it was stronger than an apology or the lack of one.
While we never said vows, they were written on my heart.

My love is not something I can simply erase.
Even anger and betrayal don’t mask it for very long.

So it mostly just sits, and waits.
Pathetic, I suppose. A pathetic picture I’ve written in prose.

I recently looked at pictures of the wedding.
Everything was picture perfect.
That day.
Your shockingly wonderful laugh. Your victory.
You remind me of a string conductor in an orchestra.
Your part in my play.
My little opera.
Or my B rated Lifetime Television movie.

It seems you loved me when I was whole,
But not when I was broken.
I think, in ways, I’m more beautiful broken.
Honestly.
But not to you.
Maybe you think me useless.
Perhaps I make you uncomfortable.
I may have struck an old chord.

I don’t know.

Ugly things have twisted around us.
What started as mere wisps of an ominous song has now grown bark and choked everything out.
The music is gone.
The garden is dead.
We’re different now.
It’s over.

I know.

I considered trying to edit you out of the photo album.
It isn’t possible.
Even if I removed every picture.
Often I look at pictures (not just these)
And I see the things that are not there more than the things that are.

Like that seemingly perfect picture of me holding the baby on a sunny summer day.

I was hungover and heartbroken that day.
My skin was clammy.
The sun was hot.
I didn’t want to go home. I knew I had to.

Yes, you’d still be there.
Even if you weren’t there.

I miss you, anyway.
And I pray for you.
Every day.

I’ll keep trying to say goodbye.

Until one day,
When it will finally be

The Last Time.

One Teacher: Game Changer

My Kindergarten through 5^th grade years were spent at a super strict Baptist private school. When I say “super strict,” whatever image comes to mind pales in comparison to our reality. It was not plaid skirts and memory verses. I have very few memories, if any, of my teachers being nurturing. My kindergarten teacher was along the lines of one of the nuns in The Sound of Music – well, except she was Baptist, and the Catholics were going to hell. Teachers were one step down from God, and God was not loving or kind. He was watching your every movement, knowing your every intent, and reading your every evil thought. To even think about sinning was a sin. As a child I tried very hard not to think thoughts that I was not supposed to think, but it seemed the harder I tried not to think them, the harder and faster and more sinful they became. My thoughts mocked me, and I often despaired for my soul.

We ended up leaving the Christian school because my middle trouble brother got kicked out. He was in sixth and I was in fifth, which meant we shared a classroom. I remember I sat in the middle front, and he sat in the back-left corner. The teacher started ridiculing him, and then teasing him when she was able to make him cry – telling the entire class to turn around and look at the big baby in the back. He turned redder than red, stood up, balled his fists, and screamed “Fuck you!” at the lady. In that moment, I was proud of him. She deserved it. And he said what many others had mumbled quietly for years.

In sixth grade I went to public school for the first time. I was certain my eternal fate was hopeless – they taught about sex ed, science, and PE. Boys tried to snap a bra I didn’t have. I begged my mother to send me back, but they couldn’t. I’m sure it broke her heart too, but the private school was behind us, and the public school was before us. I floated in the hallways, feeling invisible, backwards, and small.

My homeroom teacher was Mr. Peleck. I had never had a male teacher ever, so in and of itself, that was pretty strange. He was also my reading teacher, and he seemed really nice. I tried to become a flower on the wall, do my work, get good grades, and mind my own business. I remember in reading class I sat pretty much right in the middle of the classroom of probably 30 or so.

Every day during reading we would have 30 minutes of quiet time to read. I know this is the class where I fell head over heels in love with the book Bridge to Terabithia. One day during the silent reading time, I had the hiccups. I learned how to hold in sneezes and make them silent during elementary to avoid getting into trouble, and I was doing a fairly good job with the hiccups, but the classroom was so quiet, it was impossible. I peacefully kept reading, hiccupping softly every now and then.

Suddenly, Mr. Peleck slammed his own reading material down onto his desk, to which we all jumped and turned and looked. He was staring right at me, and he was mad. “That’s it Feller! Go to the office!”

I turned 100 shades of red as only blondes and red-heads can, as 30 eyes turned on me. I was mortified. I tried to explain. “But, Mr….”

“You heard me. Get your things and go to the office.”

“But-“

“No buts. I am tired of you interrupting my class.”

I knew I could not argue and I picked up my things and headed for the door, filled with shame. I had never, ever been sent to the principal's office (I made up for that in my later years). As I reached the door, he said, “Wait, Amy.”

I turned around and his eyes were merry and bright and dancing with joy - he had this big smile on his face. “Do you have the hiccups anymore?”

I was so relieved. And I did not have the hiccups anymore. I stared at him for what seemed like an eternity where thoughts and emotions were crashing around my brain, but it was likely only five seconds, and I laughed. I laughed. He laughed. The entire class laughed. It was funny. Something funny happened in school! My teacher was funny!

Mr. Peleck taught me that learning can be fun – not just in this scenario, but over a year. I have never, ever forgotten him. This weekend I attended a retreat and a speaker asked us to think of our favorite teacher ever. Instantly, it is Mr. Peleck. The speaker then asked us to think of why that teacher made a difference – what did they do to reach you? What did they change in your world? How did they communicate with you specifically? How did they tailor a life lesson for you?

Mr. Peleck taught me about joy.

I think it’s a good reminder for me even now. I am quick from my younger years to introduce guilt and shame into my thought process immediately when something goes askew. It is my go-to - it is my demon I battle. I would like to say I always will battle it, but recently I’ve seen that maybe I might be able to slay that monster. A friend told me I could skip from the problem straight to the solution and skip the shame – that idea blows my ever-loving mind. I stared at him like he had a chicken on his head when he said it. Yet remembering this scenario of Mr. Peleck gives me a renewed sense of purpose. It would do me good to remember that life is fun – that learning is fun.

…that somehow shame can be morphed into joy. 

A Memoir on Urine

My day started at about 2 am. It started with dreams – I’ve been having dreams lately that are getting more and more realistic – they seem like reality – and so when I wake up I am very confused about what is real and what is not real. This reality was a simple one. Picture Day was today, and Edith’s jeans were still in the washer and needed to be moved into the dryer. So I awoke, transferred the laundry, put the dog outside because she was whining, turned off a couple of lights (always a thing here), and then went back to sleep. Only to awaken to have to pee moments later. As I begrudgingly awoke I was proud of myself that the clothes were already transferred, and then slowly I started to doubt if that was true or not true. I made my way to the laundry room, noting the dog was in her cage. I transferred the clothes. Hoping this time it was for real, and fell back into bed. Oddly discombobulated.

At 3 am Edith woke up. Edith never wakes up. She told me she had woken up at 2 am and had been awake ever since, which I knew was not true. I told her to go back to sleep. She had to pee. I said then pee and go back to sleep. I fell back asleep. Time danced in and out of consciousness, me trying to sleep, and Edith seemingly peeing every 15 to 30 minutes, and singing in between. At 4:28 am I told her to get out of there and just go watch TV and leave me alone. I knew she had a UTI. I could not miss work the next day, but what else was I to do? My appointment setter was going to be completely distraught – we are slammed. I tried to sleep, but it was rough, with the TV blaring, the dog whining, and my thoughts swirling.

6 am came. 6:10 am came. 6:20 am came. Edith is singing at this point, happy as a lark. I mention she’s sick, but that it is also Picture Day. She made it clear she had no intention of missing Picture Day. We had a follow up appointment today anyway from her UTI two weeks ago, so I had assurance that she’d be medically taken care of. We showered, packed for the day, and got on it. I told her I’d pick her up at 10:30 from school. I had 3 appointments to run before then so I hit the road running.

My first appointment, I met the couple, connected with them on a personal level, gave them a sales folder, got on the roof, measured it, assessed the damage, climbed back down, and then proceeded to give them my analysis and part of my presentation. All the while with my right foot firmly imbedded in a fire ant pile. The climbed all up my leg and in my shoe before blowing the universal whistle that fire ants have to “CHOMP! NOW” I peeled off my sock and my shoe and threw them in the driveway and finished my presentation like My Little Dumpling My Son John. Fortunately, it’s Texas, and everyone here knows about fire ants, and my customers were completely nonplussed. And I’m also not overly allergic to fire ants, after the initial sting.

After my second appointment, I forgot to tie my ladder in. I’ve been in the roofing industry for 10+ years and I have never, ever, ever forgotten to tie my ladder in.  As I was confidently driving down San Antonio Street, I heard a loud crash, looked in my rear view, and noticed my ladder wasn’t there. My heart sank. But fortunately for me, there was hardly anyone out. One truck gently drove around my ladder in the middle of the street. Two construction guys in hard hats kind of smirked. And me? I didn’t even blush. Just picked it up like this was everyday business, strapped it back in, and drove off with a wave, but shaken that I’d forgotten.

Fortunately, my third appointment went pretty quickly, even though it was a double pull (I had to use two ladders to get to the top of the house – you carry a second ladder up the first ladder, plant it, pray to Jesus, and climb to the second story). I got to Edith’s school at 10:20, a full 40 minutes before her doctor’s appointment, which was 20-25 away. Plenty of time.

They cannot find my kid. I’m not kidding. And this is the 2^nd time I’ve had this happen in a week, but this time, we had a deadline. I’m in the lobby for 5 minutes. She must be in Music. 10 minutes. I think she’s outside. 15 minutes. At this point I say out loud to no one in particular (meaning the other lady working in the office that is not trying to find my kid), “We have a doctor’s appointment at 11:00 in San Marcos.” Do you know what she says to me????? “Wow, you are cutting it close!” Sometimes it is good that I get so dumbfounded that I can only hear my reaction in my own brain and it doesn’t completely spill out of my mouth. But I did say, “Well, I wasn’t cutting it close when I came in here, but we are now.” Apparently, I didn’t say it loud enough, because she didn’t hear me, apparently. 20 minutes later – they found my kid. Now it’s 10:40; we’re late.

When I’m late, my armpits start stinging.  My forehead starts sweating. My heart starts pounding out of my chest. I cannot handle it. I am not OCD, but I might be OCD in this circumstance. Very European in this regard. I call the doctor’s office, tell them the school lost my child, and we are on our way. The inform me if we are more than 15 minutes late we have to reschedule. We cannot reschedule. It’s Friday, and my child has a UTI. I tell Edith to start slamming water, because she is going to have to pee in a cup. She’s been peeing all day though, so I’m not overly sweating it.

We get there, we make it, we check in. They take us back and we go through everything, and then finally they bring us The Cup.  We did this just two weeks ago with this UTI, so we know what we are doing. My job is to catch. As Edith is sitting on the toilet, and I have the cup, and my job function is to catch her urine because she’s not sure she can, I have a great moment of humility. I own a company, I am an expert in my field, I am smart and capable and pretty even, and here I am, hovering over a toilet, catching urine. And while she pees often, she pees also little because of the infection. She got out 12 drops and I caught maybe 4. I could obviously improve in this department of my new-found humility.

But the nurse says it’s enough! I feel elated for a bit. But come to find out, it’s only enough to tell that she yes, has a UTI. It’s not enough for a culture to send to the lab. So we need more. And the girl that’s been peeing for 9 hours straight amazingly dries up, despite drinking Dixie Cup after Dixie Cup of water. We go through one more Session of Humiliation that yields 4 drops out of 12.

We are there two hours. I’ve missed two more appointments. At one point I lay on the tile floor in the bathroom, staring up to Heaven, despairing over my day. This is Friday. Friday is supposed to be great. Edith asks if I’m mad at her, because she can see I’m stressed to the max. No, I’m not mad at you. This isn’t your fault. “Is it my fault I got a UTI?” No, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry I’m so stressed out. It’s nothing you can control.

I tell her about the time I accidentally dropped the collection cup into the toilet and failed the test and had to hang out for two hours until I could pee again or I would not get the job I was interviewing for.

Finally, they come in and say, sorry, this is over. It’s our lunch time. It was my lunchtime two hours ago!!!!! I beg Edith to please pee in the cup, but she very assuredly assures all of us that the reservoir is dry. The doctor proceeds to tell me I’m going to have to collect a sample and return it their office within 10-15 minutes of taking it, but mind you, they are closed for the next hour for lunch, and we live 20-25 minutes away. My day is over. I agree. I have no choice. I have instructions to immediately refrigerate the sample, and then when I am ready or whomever is ready to drive it to San Marcos, to pack it in ice.

I often feel like I overstep my bounds with my employees between business and my personal life (like picking her up from school when I’m stuck somewhere). Driving a urine sample packed on ice to the next town really seems way further across the line than something like picking up my dry cleaning, which I have never ever done. But we are just skipping dry cleaning and going straight to urine samples!

We leave, and go through the drive through at Chick Fil A. I’m dying starving. I probably have not had a soda in 6 weeks, but when I realize they have fountain Cherry Coke, I decide I deserve it. I also tell Edith she can have ANYTHING to drink so long as she drinks it. And for the first time ever, I pushed her to fill up on her drink before eating her food. I need this girl to pee! While in the drive-thru the doctor calls and says we can take the specimen directly to the lab in our own hometown and thus skip the drip back to San Marcos. I’m skeptical about the lab accepting the sample, but she assures me she’ll call ahead and it will be okay.

We get on the interstate, I’m trying to drive and eat. There’s sweat tea, honey mustard sauce and cherry coke sliding all over the place. I-35 runs all the way from northern Minnesota to Mexico, and I swear, there are only 6 miles on that entire interstate that have no bathrooms - it’s between exit 199 and 193 in Texas. We hit exit 197 and Edith announces, “I have to pee!” I state there’s no bathroom for at least 3 miles. Can she make it, or shall we pee in the woods? She claims she can make it the bathroom, quickly followed 20 seconds later by, I HAVE TO PEE RIGHT NOW. I don’t know if you have ever had a UTI, but urgency is a big thing. I’m yelling at her not to pee. I don’t really care about it being all over the truck and her clothes, but I need it to be in this stupid cup I have. So, she’s yelling she has to, I’m screaming not to, honey mustard sauce is all over my hand, cherry coke sloshing between my legs, I pull off onto the shoulder, still screaming not to pee, grab the cup, race around the truck, and meet her on the other side, with a wonderful, full front view of Interstate Highway I-35 traffic. I have the cup. “Ignore the traffic. Pee.” Normally she would have never, ever, but she had no choice, and I actually caught it – a beautiful 4 ounces instead of drops. Mid-process she says, “Mom, is this illegal?” And I acquiesced that it kind of was.

I never saw myself on the side of an interstate highway catching urine. #humility

And my truck isn’t exactly incognito if you’ve ever seen it.

We got back in the truck. Edith had the biggest look of relief on her face. I was explaining that if a police man did pull us over and we explained the circumstances, while it was technically illegal, we’d probably get a high five. But also explained that if they caught a drunk person doing the same thing, it would not turn out so well. And while I’m explaining I’m panicking, because I’m supposed to refrigerate this sample. I’m on the side of the highway in the first day of fall in Texas, which means it’s 95 degrees, instead of the 96 it was yesterday. I want to cry. I find a red solo cup, make sure the lid is firmly attached to the specimen, drop it in there, and scoop all my beautiful soft crushed ice out of my hard-earned fountain Cherry Coke into the cup. Defeated.

I called the lab and got directions and we drove in. At least my nightmare was finally over. We found the lab, walked in with the solo cup, and I told the lady, I’m here, I’m the one that called. I hold up the cup. I have the sample. I felt a triumphant. She looked at me like I was crazy. “I can’t take that.”

“What do you mean, you can’t take it? Her doctor said you’d take it.” She repeats, looking at me like I’m insane, “I can’t take that.” And I break – she sees it – I know she sees it. “Her doctor PROMISED me that you would take this. Do you know how long it took us to get this? Do you know what I went through to get this? And you won’t take it???” I was tottering between bawling and collapsing and insanity and killing her in front of my only born. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’ll take it.” But she said it in such a way that I knew as soon as we walked out the door she was going to dump it down the sink and she was only appeasing me because I was obviously insane. I did all I could do, took a deep breath, realized my defeat, and agreed to her false scheme, or else I would lose my shit and my pride.

“Okay.”

She handed me a specimen cup and said she needed me to pour it into that. When I said it was already in a specimen cup, her eyes lit up like Christmas! She thought I was bringing her pee in a Solo Cup. The skies parted. I laughed. She laughed. I proceeded to explain it was buried in Cherry Coke Ice, but that I sealed it real well first. She laughed more, gave me gloves, and had me clean it all and pour it from my cup into her cup.

I took Edith back to school. She made one class, and I made one appointment. Anyway. There’s that.

I picked her up then we went to the airport with one of her best friends and one of mine, and someone amazing took us both up into the sky, far, far away from all of that and everywhere. We were up in the sky with the wind in our hair and the entire earth below us. The best best ending to the worst worst day.

It wasn't the literal end - we were 40 minutes late to the first play practice we were told we should never, ever be late to. I  also accidentally left the dog in the car alone with the Taco Bell because we missed dinner. But somehow having wind beneath your wings makes it so all that doesn't really even matter. Being up in the air, above all of it, ended the chaos and reminded me to laugh, love, live, and let go.

Breathe.