just like mom

When I was a kid I knew a few things for sure: I knew my favorite color was blue; I knew that God loved me; I LOVED reading and writing stories (usually about horses); and I knew that I wanted to grow up to be nothing like my mom. 


Now, don't get me wrong, my mom was a wonderful woman and great mother. She loved my brother and me with a fierce devotion--fierce. She was spontaneous and loved surprises. Some of my favorite moments with her centered around jaunts to TCBY for a special treat (maybe that doesn't seem super-spontaneous to you, but we didn't have a lot of money). She loved to have fun and sing, specifically Oldies in our beat-up Mercury. She was silly; my mom at her silliest acted like a puppy, crawling into my room on hands and knees, whimpering that she was sorry for doing whatever or sorry that I was feeling sad. And my favorite thing about her was the way she made us feel special. I fondly remember notes in my lunch box and special "dates" we would have individually with her. 


But, like most mothers, she had her flaws. One of the biggest things that got under my skin was how she could just air her feelings to anyone and everyone, it seemed, without a care in the world. She would tell anyone about her problems, past or present, and not in a "please feel sorry for me" way but just because that's what came naturally. She was an open book. I have vivid memories of her re-hashing a former marriage or our current financial struggles to complete strangers. And even to a mom while we were on a field trip--right in front of me, nonetheless! I cowered and moved away from her slowly, hoping that my classmates would not compute that she was my mom. 


So, I think about my mom's ability and sometimes urgency to be so frank with others about her life and I realize that, oh crap, I'm turning out to be just like her. Obviously, this blog is proof of that. Recently, I even caught myself striking up a conversation about debt with a check-out lady at the grocery store. My mom totally did that and it embarrassed the crap out of me! So, I don't know if it's becoming a mother, getting older (I'll be 30 this year, whoop!), or just living through the craziness of this past year, but I am officially turning into my mom. I wonder how much more I would be like her if she'd been with us the past twelve years. 


And I see more than just the frankness--I see the silliness, too. I'm not too spontaneous, though. And I'm not sure how it will turn out, but I hope to have all of that fierce devotion to Savannah. And I do love to sing to the Oldies whenever I can find them. 



So, here's to my mom, Diane. I love you and miss you. And here's to all my girlfriends who never wanted to be like their moms--let's hold on to their best qualities and let's embarrass our kids every chance we get! 

broken pieces

I was just reading over a recent post I wrote called "Daddy's girl" in which I wrote about my relationship with my dad. I needed to revisit the perspective of hope out of which came that post because after this weekend I needed a refreshment. 


I have never been around my dad during a manic episode, at least not to my recollection. I've spoken to him many times on the phone and know all the tell-tale signs but being around him this weekend really punched me in the gut. Since he was on his medication, he really wasn't that bad--not as bad as he can get without meds (this "bad" is the kind of impulsive and reckless behavior that has landed him in jail). But it was still difficult seeing him from this perspective. My husband described it perfectly when he said that he was like a 60-year-old man with ADHD, if you can imagine it. He talked almost incessantly, shared things he would never utter when not manic, and flew from one task to the next without really spending much quality time with me. But he was almost glued to Savannah, which was wonderful to see. He didn't have much of that "natural touch," but he fawned over her like any proud grandpa would do. 


I'm supposing that none of that really sounds so bad, but I guess it's just that I realized once again that I won't ever have the type of relationship with my dad that I crave. When I see him in his "normal" moments (a low-grade depression as he once told me) and his manic moments, I know that I'm not getting the full picture. I don't know if I will ever know the man he truly is without the mental illness. I keep telling myself that we will have that relationship in which we can have deep and involved conversations and a true trust between one another. That we will have a relationship in which we can understand one another's sense of humor and just call each other to see how the day is going. That I could buy him a little present and really know that he will like it because I know what he likes and dislikes. I want all those little things and all the big things that make any relationship good, but I'm figuring out that this may never be possible. It is yet just another painful realization in the life of my relationship with my dad. I'm really trying to focus on the positive, but for now all I feel is disappointment. 


But an important point I've been missing is that he has this mental illness. As much as I wish it weren't so, this is a part of him. God could take it away, but  God has allowed this to happen to my dad for reasons that I can never know. I want my dad without this thing that clouds his mind, but I have to accept that I'm never going to get that. I have to accept him as he is and allow God to show me how to enjoy the relationship we do have. Truly I am blessed to even have this. 


When my mom died, I felt sort of orphaned since I could not rely on my dad at the time for much of anything. This feeling is creeping back in now, the feeling that I don't have those roots in my parents that I think I need. I can complain to God about the unfairness of it all--about how the relationship with my dad is unsatisfactory and how I can't have my mom anymore; but when I am left with the truth and the pieces I do have, what will I choose to build with them?


I believe with all my heart that God is making something beautiful out of this relationship, and I have seen small signs already, but I want to see the final product--what God sees when he looks upon the work of art he will create out of these broken pieces. When I ask him to show me, though, he will not. He will not show me because he wants me to trust him with it. He knows that my artistic abilities are lacking but that his are perfect. When he looks upon the mess of my past--the wreckage of my parent's divorce, the scarred mind of my father, the death of my mom and the hole she has left in my heart--He sees the beautiful masterpiece that He can and will make if I will choose to give him all the pieces. You'd think I would have learned by now that I am a clumsy, foolish mess when it comes to repairing my broken heart. 


I do believe that this is the most revealing I've been in my posts, but I just couldn't not write it. We all have broken pieces from our pasts and our presents. I pray that when you look at your pieces you will not strain and fret over how to make them look pretty or how you can hide them under the rug. I pray you will do the hard thing with me. Let us live every day to please our Lord. Let us allow him to deal with the pieces completely. He so desires to make all of this brokenness new. 

Daddy's girl

I figured that it's about time to write about something very important that's been going on in my life for the past few weeks. Some of you have been with me through this journey for several years now and others haven't a clue, so I'm going to give a quick catch-me-up. 


I've never had the greatest relationship with my dad. Yeah, I'm one of those scarred girls with "Daddy issues" (and my dear Chaz married me anyway!). My parents divorced when I was seven and my dad moved several states away. I was ten the first time I heard my dad was in jail and it only continued happening until just a couple years ago. He is bi-polar, or manic-depressive, and when his mania gets to its height he makes terrible decisions that usually end with him in jail and then prison. The pattern has always been the same. 


At one time, I was very bitter toward him--for leaving us, for being "crazy," and for being in prison. I was also embarrassed of having a dad with these sorts of problems and only told the very closest of friends about him. But God began pursuing me with thoughts of forgiveness early in my college years. It was only after many years of trying to forgive him on my own that I allowed Christ to show me what true forgiveness looked like. That happened a few years ago, and my dad and I have been maneuvering this strange new territory of getting to know one another ever since. 


A few weeks ago during a phone conversation, I noticed that my dad was very manic. I could tell by his speech patterns and the subject matter. After getting off the phone with him I called my brother to discuss what I could do. He and my husband both suggested that I just tell my dad what I thought. So I called him back and told him that I thought he was very manic. He said his sister had also noticed and he was very thankful that I told him. Through an odd series of events he ended up in the hospital and realized that this was the safest place for him, where he could not be a danger to himself or others. Unfortunately, he left only a few days later, got himself into a bit of a mess, and then checked himself back in. 


Last week, he told me that the doctor advised that he stay for another two to three weeks while they adjust his meds and monitor him. But he ended up talking his way out a few days later. I called on Saturday to check in with him and it was quite obvious that he was still very manic. I called my aunt to discuss this with her and she gave me some great perspective. In only a few years I have gone from becoming very angry with my dad when he became manic--so angry that I would not return his phone calls--to caring enough to seek any help that I could give him. While some say I am "strong" because of this, I respond that it is only because God gave me the grace to be able to extend grace. But sometimes my control-seeking nature tries to take over again. My aunt helped me realize that the only thing I can do is pray for him and love him. For some reason I apologized, probably out of disappointment. "Don't apologize for trying to love your dad," she said. It was the first time I acknowledged how much I do love him in a while. 


So, with fear of what he would say and the probability that he would not listen to me, I called to tell him again that he was very manic and needed to go back to the hospital. He promised that he would and that afternoon checked himself back in. He has never done this before and realizes that he may not be able to control when the mania kicks in or how long it lasts, but he can do this one thing to make sure that he is safe. He acknowledged that he could have spared  our family so much heartache if he had only realized this twenty years ago. He even admitted that he and my mom may have not even divorced had he been this proactive all those years ago. For the first time in my life I heard him cry with sincere regret over all that he has lost. All I could do was tell him I love him. 


I believe sincerely that it is a miracle he is even alive today. God is working out something truly extraordinary in his life, in mine, and in the life of our family. He is "making all things new" (Rev.21:5). I would never trade my dad or  the life I have had because of him. Through all of this, God has consistently shown himself to me and has granted me with the humility to see myself as I truly am--a girl desperately in need of not just a father but the Father. 

eleven years

I've been a mother for just over six weeks, and in those six weeks I've experienced an upheaval of emotions that I had not expected. We, my husband and I, received all of the well-intentioned "advice" from friends and strangers: "You're life will never be the same," "Don't worry, it'll get better," and our favorite, "Get plenty of sleep while you can!" While that last phrase truly has no merit as I was suffering from heartburn and hot flashes at the end of my pregnancy, the other two always made me think. I wondered just what each person meant when they said it. What point of view, what experiences had flavored that hackneyed phrase? Looking back, I wish that I had interviewed each person who spoke one of those phrases to me and found out exactly what it meant to them. But would anyone really want to tell me...

These past six weeks have been the most challenging of my life. The physical pain and recovery from childbirth coupled with the surges and drops in hormones and the broken moments of both fear of failure and being incompetent and the overwhelming joy of this new life make a person almost crazy. By the end of two weeks I didn't recognize myself. But as with all things time and routine heal, and my daughter, Savannah, and myself began to form a relationship without words. Touching, looking, and intuition are languages that I am just now beginning to truly explore. My daughter has provided a spring of life that I could not have anticipated. 

I think the things they don't tell you are somewhat inexpressible, and that is why this journey of parenthood is so varied and rich. I began writing this inaugural post yesterday, the eleven-year anniversary of my mom's passing. Each year the dull ache becomes fainter, even on holidays like Christmas (usually my worst) and Mother's Day. But this year is different. This year I can finally begin to experience what my mother deemed her greatest joy. She only got seventeen years to be a mom. She was not a cut-out-of-a-magazine mom, but her life and death made me who I am. She taught me many things and a lot of what not to do, but mostly she taught me how to love. Without holding back. I've only truly been able to express that kind of love within the past few years and I'm still learning and stretching. The hardest thing, the thing nobody can tell you, is how hard you fall when you look at your own child. As I rocked Savannah she gazed up at me with the oxytocin-induced lull of sleep and I smiled at the ease of her life and whispered and thank-you in her ear. Thank you for allowing me to be a mother. Thank you to my Lord who gives and takes mercifully, omnisciently, and who will not let me make a mistake without being by my side. Thank you, thank you that in these eleven years I have not crumbled under the weight of loss nor barricaded myself against love and light. Thank you, my God, for making all things new.