Let Go!

“Make sure to wait to use your turn signal for the main road until you get past that little side road entrance,” I caution. “Whoops, sorry, we’re going to the bank; you’re turning on the side road. I’ll shut up and let you drive.” Mental note to zip it. He’s been driving since June on his own. My coaching is complete. Let go of control – let him drive and learn. Trust he’ll figure it out.

At 15 with my learner’s permit, taking a trip to Cleveland, my older brother drove the hour from the Illinois state line area to the crazy 465 loop around Indianapolis. He pulled over and said, “Your turn.” And he proceeded to fall asleep. I white-knuckled it around the 465 race track and the rest of the way to Cleveland. He threw me in the ocean and I swam. Confident driver ever since.

“Bud, you don’t have to stop there – oh, wait, you need to yield to oncoming cars in the parking lot. Whoops, sorry again. I’ll try to hold my tongue.” “Yeah, Mom, it’s okay. I’ve got this.”

We started our morning errands at the orthodontist. “Do you want to drive,” I ask. “Yes,” he says. As I take the passenger seat, I realize this is the first time he’s chauffeuring. Shoot, I can text and get all kinds of distracted, not focusing on opportunities for teaching moments. We’ve completed our 50 hours of driver training.

He’s transitioned from being gone just a couple nights a week to maybe being home a couple nights a week. Going to gatherings where he may only know one person instead of hanging with the posse of friends he’s known since fourth grade. He’s meeting lots of new people. Josh is outgoing, confident. He walks in a room and makes new friends. Unlike me where I will make sure I know at least one person at the party (hopefully more because most likely it’s the host and she’ll be busy mingling) and struggle to talk to new people.

My husband and I have taught him a foundation, and we get to (have to) let him make choices and mistakes at this point and make sure he knows we will love him through it all. Better now than when he’s in college, right? God, I’ve said that to friends who’ve gone through this already with their children. This adjustment is rocky. Were they ready to wring my neck over my inexperienced input?

Within one week he gained his license, started employment, opened bank accounts, learned to use a debit card, mastered pumping gas, make curfew when driving (which is 10:00 pm, by the way, during the six-month driver probation period, something we learned online as he pulled up at 10:45 his first night out driving alone). He’s on the brink of 17, folks. And from what I hear, he’s a late bloomer.

It goes against my nature to trust first; I was a lucky liar as a teen. But alas, he’s not me. Can’t wrap my mind around why I’m so excited for these next few years but my heart starting to squeeze in the rapid approach.

After a handful of failed attempts to keep my mouth shut while we completed our hour-long errands, finally I succeeded by not telling him “the light’s green, you need to go.” Through my comments this morning he responded with grace. Patience at its finest.

Where There's a Will...

Dear George Will,

Hope you don’t mind if I call you George. Phew, what a crazy couple weeks. Of course yours has been so very public; mine private, contemplative, as I’ve processed your article published in The Washington Post. I must tell you I’ve come a long way, I’ve noticed, because a few years ago - heck even a year ago - I would’ve immediately fired off a response, quite hostile I’ll admit, one I’d regret later.

During these couple weeks I’ve narrowed my focus specifically to your phrase “coveted status that confers privileges.” Thank you, George. You’ve ignited serious soul-searching, and I’ve come to some epiphanies and deepened my spirituality as I’ve thought about forgiveness and redemption. Something in me has even come to believe that if my stepfather were alive today, I think I’d be able to stand strong before him and forgive him.

I was sexually assaulted (molested they called it back in the day) by a neighbor boy; and when I told some kids, they didn’t believe me. The seeds of being doubted and ashamed were planted. A year later, my new stepfather began wooing me with gifts I readily accepted, which led to a summer of molestation. His threats of killing me and my family if I told, and my fear no one would believe me, as well as the shame that I’d enjoyed the gifts and attention he showered on me before that first assault, kept my lips sealed. It wasn’t until that silver-haired Phil Donahue turned to the camera during an episode of his show, looked me in the eyes and said don’t believe the abuser. Tell. And keep telling until someone believes you. I did that very day, and my mother sent me to safety while she dealt with the fallout.

Here’s the rub: She didn’t prosecute. He was a respected man in the community, and she didn’t want to put me through facing her soon-to-be ex-husband in court. In her mind she was protecting me; in my 11-year-old mind I felt she doubted me, I was partly to blame, and I feared he’d continue preying on other girls.

So those seeds of doubt and shame sprouted. The advice of “forget it and it will go away” was conveyed. A series of choices starting in my teens developed as I looked for ways to cope. I turned to alcohol, drugs, and promiscuity. I was looking for comfort in all the wrong places.

Here’s the profound part: What began flowering in me was a heart filling with mercy. In my 20s, after making mistake after mistake, I developed a deep love for the downtrodden, for single moms, for the bullied, for people who feel no one cares. In my 30s, I zoned into a passion of seeking out ways to help teens, especially in that critical junior high age when drugs and alcohol are easily attainable and those hormones are flaring – the same age at which I chose my destructive path.

So while mulling over your phrase “coveted status that confers privileges,” I came to the realization that ten or so years ago I was given opportunities to share my story, to bring to light the darkness that consumed me. And each chance lifted a layer of shame in which I wallowed.

George, I’ve had the “privilege” to work with youth, to walk alongside teen girls as they hit that pivotal age. I’ve had the “privilege” to mentor a young lady - who’s experienced much trauma in her life - beginning in her seventh-grade year and continuing through her senior year. I’ve had the “privilege” to share my story in front of a group of women ranging in age from teens to elderly in Nicaragua, some who’ve experienced similar journeys. I have to tell you, I cried as this group surrounded me after I spoke, laid their hands on me and prayed for me. I thought I was there to minister to them, but no, these strong women were loving on me.

The last I’ll share – I hope I haven’t lost your attention – is I’ve had the “privilege” to share my story with groups of women at a handful of retreats. I am not comfortable speaking in front of groups, but when I lean on my faith, I wish you could see the power my God injects. I blossom when He helps me conquer my discomfort. And I treasure the moments when other women who’ve experienced abuse share their stories.

So in the phrase “coveted status that confers privileges” on which I’ve meditated, while I disagree with “coveted” - because please search your heart and understand no sexual assault victim “wishes for, especially eagerly,” (dictionary def.) that experience – I will agree, in my own experience, that your words “status that confers privilege” describes me because I am given opportunities to redeem my choices and make peace with my past.

George, I look forward to how you’ll redeem your experience of a couple weeks ago and the fallout. Hoping to witness redemption at its finest. I wish you all my best. Grace and peace.

What's Up with This, God?

“It’s a blip on the radar,” the dean said with the high school counselor nodding in agreement. And in our brains, Dave, Josh, and I understood, but we still hadn’t made that 18-inch connection to our hearts.

Josh has been dealing with bouts of vertigo for the last three years. If you haven’t experienced it, it’s debilitating. From what he describes, it’s like the earth is shifting, spinning, the floor opening under him. The pattern seems to be trip-related, be it a flight or the bounce of a vehicle after long drives to a destination, although there've been episodes in between. We sought the help of a second neurologist who specializes in vertigo. In going through J’s history and ours, the doc came to the conclusion it might be migraine-related. So we started a daily med prescribed for migraine prevention.

Well, about a week after starting the med, Josh had a bad reaction: racing heart, dizziness, trouble breathing. In short, side effects from the med and now panic attacks at the thought of symptoms happening at school. We tried the next few weeks to get him to school, even just through first period, and he couldn’t make it. There’s no talking a person down from anxiety attacks. It’s leaving logic behind (this kid is logic-driven so this is new territory for us) and just supporting him and trying techniques that engage the senses: squeezing ice cubes, stomping plastic cups, heaving a brick (not at something, although I’m certain he considered at my head as I stumbled through this experience, but chucking it, say, in the back yard) to focus the mind on physical v. mental.

With the dean’s and counselor’s advice, we withdrew him from his beloved school, enrolled him online, which transfers credit for credit, with the hope of just that semester. This was painful for him. Not laid out in the life plan he’d created for himself – and not the one we envisioned. It took time for us to process and enable him to accept this decision, coming up with a plan he could own in order to be successful.

Guess what? This ain’t no blip. This is a life changer. Classes for second semester (he was able to return to school more confident than ever) that he would’ve signed up for, like business, were either filled or only offered first semester. He ended up in two art classes. This is the kid who was taking art just to fulfill the fine arts portion of his high school diploma. A means to an end. More science-, social studies-, math-driven.

Well, he’s in the midst of shaking up his schedule for jr./sr. years. Instead of math/science/law school focus-based classes, he’s pursuing art. This was the area in which he had little confidence in his work. The kid is changing his goal to major in business/art. What?!? He beams as he shares this news at lunch, sitting across the table from Dave and me, my hand squeezing Dave’s under the table as we witness the fire in his eyes. And that passion and drive he had before that the uncertainty of his health had sucked dry has returned and then some.

We skipped our trip over Christmas vacation, deciding to keep him stable and not risk another bout with vertigo. But he’s ready to take on the extended family vacation this summer with warrior mentality, willing to risk a recurrence of symptoms. Pray for our J as he takes on this challenge with a “bring it” attitude.

The answer to the prayer “why” at its finest.

Forgiveness at Its Finest

We were enjoying what had become our weekly talkfests, Mom in the blue vinyl recliner hooked up to the chemo cocktail, Aunt Cinda and I in the rolling stools huddled close. We were pleased to end up in the left corner spot which gave a bit of privacy in a room lined with others receiving their meds. In what turned out to be her last weekly treatment, aided by my aunt who’s a brilliant psychotherapist, Mom and I had one of the most significant breakthroughs in our rocky past.

“I just wanted you to listen. I’d yell and sling hurtful comments and you wouldn’t react, didn’t flinch. I felt you didn’t care,” I shared.

Cinda, who’d facilitated many healing conversations in the last 11 months, asked her sister, “How’d her actions make you feel? What does that stir up in you?”

Mom replied, “I wasn’t ignoring you. I felt growing up I was to be seen, not heard. I wanted you to have a voice.” Ah-ha dawning. Burden lifting. Definitive forgiveness on both sides in her final days. Eyes shining. Tender smiles shared.

We’d been on a journey toward harmony for about a decade. Seeds were planted as I witnessed my son’s full-onslaught adoration of her. She was the dream grandma. Not only would she listen intently to my son’s recounting of a half-hour show in 45 minutes, but she’d take dictation in her spiral notebook on each Pokemon character and their powers. She’d talk knowledgeably when he brought his pack of cards next time. We’d overhear little Josh complain “Oh, man” and beg for a couple more hours when we’d call saying we were on our way to pick him up from overnighters. Grandma would negotiate, “We were just fixing some mac ‘n cheese. Can you wait?” “We just started a game of Sorry. A couple more hours?”

Mom’s and my relationship grew from weary to wary to friendly to loving. The seeds turned to sprouts when she wrote me a letter as part of a 72-hour retreat. In it she shared how much I’m loved and thought of. She listed “some of the things you do that I’m especially impressed by.” And the theme I make out as I read it today, her birthday, and on the eve of Mother’s Day, is that she was listening to the details (my son inherited his sharing of details) I’d share about my life. She ended by saying, “You’re a lovely and accomplished woman and I’m very proud you’re my daughter.” Seeing her words on stationery – she could’ve said this many times before – helped me to hear.

My son’s working on his driving time, and he’s a cautious kid. I’ve had so few moments of fear on the road with him; a couple incidents of pressing an imaginary brake, mind you, but otherwise a calm experience. I shared with him the couple times Mom took me out driving before my license. I’d back out of the driveway in her brown ‘70s Chevy Impala with the V8 engine, shift to drive, and gun down the road. I’d accelerate through turns, my periphery catching Mom’s petite frame slide across the bench, press against the door, seize the handle. She never said a word. My aunt asked, when I relayed this to her the other day, “Did that settle your urge for her to react?” I reflected, “No, just spurred me on more, took those turns a little faster.” My son’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “I told you, Josh, I could be a pistol,” I said.

I redirected my energy, after receiving her letter, to search for the positive memories. I see examples of unconditional love, grace, forgiveness. She wasn’t perfect, but she loved me the best she knew how. And she is my earthly example – Lordy, she’s set the bar high – for how Jesus loves, how He wants us to love.

Christmas 2011 was our last trip together, her stage IV cancer diagnosed the previous July. We relished our moments, aware this would be our last time at the beach. We walked slowly, her still-present sashay as we meandered down the beach. Learning to catch with Josh and me, she’d curtsy as she picked up the ball. Ah, her dainty nature. Dave, who adored her, and I chuckle at the recall.

We spent our last 11 months together crying, laughing, loving. Crazy in love with her. May 25 she died in my arms, her back against my chest, my legs along hers, my hand stroking her downy short hair, as I whispered, “I love you, Mommy, I love you.”

Dave, Josh and I crazy miss you, Mom. You are one of God’s finest.

Who's the Parent?

My son and I are in the midst of a slew of battles to decide who is right. It consumes most of our interactions with each other. The majority of these arguments are over such petty things. To top it off, I transition in and out of these “discussions” from what should be parent mode to child mode.

I’m tired; it’s exhausting to try to win all of the time. I’m annoyed; I can’t stand hearing myself engage and even start some of these debates.

I had heard over the years to “pick your battles.” I imagined I’d be a natural. Oh, not even close and way harder than I ever dreamed.

This “right” bug I’ve been infected with is even spreading into my relationship with my husband worse than usual – let alone I’m sure is circulating through my friendships.

I ache to be done with this virus which feels like it’s destroying my relationship with my son. I’m grateful my eyes have been opened to my behavior, and I pray I can control this habit before our bond is irreparable.

My Man and Me

Okay, friends, I did it. I actually did something romantic (see Hallmark Hates Me). There is a song by Dave Matthews that makes me tear up when I hear it and brings my thoughts to my husband. I couldn’t wait to share it with him. I played it for him while standing next to him. I couldn’t look at him; I was staring at the ground. My thoughts? Why did I do this? I should have sent him the link! I blushed. I started sweating. I used great restraint not to cry as I listened to the words with him next to me. His response was a hug and he said “ahhh.” We even did a little slow dance as the song finished. (This sounds gushy as I write this!) Hey, there’s some growth here. Baby steps.

The song is You and Me, should you care to listen.

P.S. He informed me he already has a song for us: Walls by Tom Petty. He thinks I have a huge heart. I think we’re more romantic than we realize…

My Husband Thinks I Should Connect With the Vacuum Cleaner

So if I understand the practice of Lent correctly (by all means, pipe in if I’m off base here), the idea is to give up something that takes your time/thoughts off God and spend that time you’ve gained in whatever way you connect with Him.

Well, here’s what I experienced last year: I gave up Facebook games. I used to spend hours upon hours playing Facebook games. I would even take time during vacations to update certain games. A really cool thing happened after Lent season – I didn’t go back to playing the games. It freed up so much of my time and I was glad to be free of that particular addiction. When I start something new, I tend to jump right in and Beat It To Death.

Here’s the rub: That extra time in my day, the hours upon hours I had spent playing those games, got replaced by some of my other habits; i.e., TV. I may have started out Lent spending some intentional time with God each day, but that TV time crept in and replaced that time with Him.

An experiment I’ve decided to try this year (see Hallmark Hates Me blog – I’m feeling very experimental), I’m going to try a new plan of attack: Instead of focusing on what I’m giving up during Lent, I’m going to focus on what I am going to do, which is committing to connect with God on a regular basis. Not too shabby if this is one of those habits I Beat To Death. Time to get started; Lent has already begun!

Now you know what the title means…