Pick a Road

You know the Robert Frost poem about two roads diverging in the woods? It's been popping into my head a lot lately and makes me wonder if it may be how God works with free will.

I know, it's scary to think about how my brain works, isn't it?

Bear with me. I've been watching a lot of news coverage about the horrible effects of the floods around my area. At first it was a constant state of urgency about the water levels and people needing to evacuate different neighborhoods. One news station was running solely on generators and kept apologizing for the fact they hadn't showered in three days because they were in the heart of the hardest hit area and had no running water.

To be honest, that part of the tragedy was easier to watch.

Now we are hearing about the long-term effects. The contamination. The waste. The ruined homes. The plans to demolish. The homeless. The jobless. The exhaustion. It breaks my heart. And somehow, so many of the people interviewed talk about the hope they feel, the resolve to rebuild and make their lives strong again. You can tell it's at the core of who they are, because it's their instinct to believe in hope even when their eyes are so very weary.

There was recently a news piece about a church community that had lost their building, and another faith denomination had offered their church as a place of worship. The interviewer was asking different people about their situations and how their faith has pulled them through. Some people said they knew things were going to be ok and they couldn't make it without their faith. Others just simply said they didn't know how God could do this to them. And I think it's a valid question; when you talk about God having a plan for us... then wouldn't the bad stuff be in His plan as well? But that question lacks a key component: free will.

Free will means that stuff is going to happen. We make choices every day that affect the outcome of our lives. We choose where to live. We choose who to marry. We make decisions about our education or having children or where to have dinner. People with more power in society decided where to build towns and levies and infrastructure.

And then it rains.

I don't think God looked around this Earth and decided one day to mess with the people of Iowa. I think all of our decisions and our ancestors' decisions came together with a natural rain and it created an opportunity for a flood. Free will. Stuff happens. Could God stop it all? You bet. But He promised us He wouldn't. He gave us free will and the opportunity to make ourselves strong again.

That's where the poem comes into play. (I told you my brain would take you there eventually.)

I think in front of every person who is hurt, God lays out paths in front of them... roads, if you will. I don't think one is necessarily better than the other, but they are choices for us to make. You can rebuild your home, you can move away, you can relocate to higher ground. And whichever road you choose to walk down, I think God is on it making sure you see the potholes you could fall in, the pebbles you could trip over and the sunshine that could warm your face through the trees. In every instance, I truly believe He is putting the possibility of blessings on your path if you're willing to reach out and take them.

I'm not so crazy as to believe any one of the roads will be easy. You might choose a road of self-pity and despair for awhile, but eventually you'll stumble on a blessing that will make your path smoother. It's not about God making sure bad stuff never happens. It's about the fact that He holds us when it does. That's what dad's do best. They don't stop you from trying new things. They don't tell you not to take any chances. They cheer you on when you choose to try. They tell you that anything is possible. And when you mess up, when you fail, when you fall... a dad picks you up, brushes you off and wipes your tears away. Then he tells you to try again.

The flood victims are in the stage where they need to be brushed off and their tears wiped away, but I believe with my whole heart that there will be roads diverging in front of them, and God will be there cheering them on as they try again. Because that's what fathers do.

One Month Later...

Seriously, I've been writing this blog for a month now... every day. Can I tell you that I'm psyching myself out over the fact that I've written every day, which means I've created an expectation that I will have something to say every day. And I know all of you who know me are going to roll your eyes at this suggestion... but what if I run out of things to talk about?!?

No, really. I only have so many stories from my childhood. And I'm not some sort of well of deep thoughts. I'm basically a "what you see is what you get" sort of girl, and there may come a time when you've seen all I got.

You know what I mean.

That's the trouble with the way my life has panned out... days will go by when nothing even remotely interesting happens to me. I mean, if you go to work you inevitably get stuck in traffic or see someone at a convenience store with crazy hair or get gum stuck on your shoe. If you stay at home with your kids they inevitably say something adorable or stick a cheerio up their nose or something. But when you exist within four walls like I do, sometimes the most exciting thing that happens is when it looks like Riley is winking at me. Ironically, I find it terribly entertaining... but I'm not sure I could fill a whole blog post about it.

So, in order to maybe have a couple extra days of material stored up, I think I'm going to post on weekdays and take the weekends off. That's when most people seem to be checking the blog anyway (I won't tell your bosses what you're doing at work... I promise). And if the day comes when I post endlessly about the paint peeling on my walls, feel free to email me with questions or topic suggestions... I'm always happy for the input. It may save you from hearing about the adorable winking dog for the 53rd day in a row. You never know, it may come to that. But I think I had an interesting enough childhood to get through another month or so. We'll have to see!

In the meantime, have a fantastic weekend - hope it's filled with sunshine for you all and I'll meet you back here bright and early Monday morning...

:)

Panic

I was going through some old files on my computer trying to make a little more space on my hard drive... I'm a bit of an obsessive picture taker/scrapbooker, so computer space is a valued commodity. I had a folder that was marked as college writings, and I went through them one by one, reading and deleting files that held old English papers I can't believe produced good grades. Boy would I analyze books differently now that I've actually lived a little.

I came across this file, which was not a paper for a class. When I started reading I went back in time like it was yesterday. It was the spring of 1997 and I was finally about to graduate from college. I didn't have a physical diagnosis yet and I was trying to finish up classes while working part time at an advertising agency. I was in pain all of the time and trying to push past it to continue the life I was trying to make for myself. 

Most of the time back then I was able to grit my teeth and deal with the emotional rollercoaster I was on, trying to map out what my new future was going to look like. I knew how I was supposed to be handling it, but the stability or acceptance I feel today was still a long way away back then. It was hard for me to read it, but I'm going to share it with you so you don't think I got sick and immediately jumped to acceptance with this. There were moments when my spirit hurt so much more than my body, and the night I wrote about back then was the worst of them.

I was attending a Wednesday night Mass at St. Stephen's, which was a weekly ritual for my friends and me. I was in too much pain to sit in the pews, so I sat in a comfortable, over-stuffed chair in the lobby and watched Mass from there. The first line to the opening song was "Sing to the Lord with shouts of joy..." and that night it was simply more than I could take. So the following is my low point back in 1997, and reading it makes me wish I could go back and tell that girl that her health would get worse, but her spirit would be fine.

*********************************

"Sing to the Lord with shouts ... " But the "of joy" part was never really heard. I watched. I listened. And I felt such an ache inside of my heart I thought it might stop right there and then. I think it's what people call despair. That feeling of being so alone when there are so many people near you that you wonder if you will ever experience joy again.

It all seemed like the cruelest joke anyone could play. I was listening as the guitars and piano thundered in together as though they were connected. And a feeling of exuberance and anticipation consumed the chapel with the filling breath, turned in a moment to a song. Their voices sang. The cantor laughed at someone in the fourth pew who must have come in at the wrong time -- or was simply so happy it was catching. Friends turned around to say hello to each other and everyone in the chapel was a community. A community of support, of understanding, of believers. What should have been an inspirational scene, I am ashamed to say, left me alone and panic-stricken.

Alone. I was there with all of them, yet very separate. It was as if I was watching on a big screen t.v., big enough to be true to life. But I was in my easy-chair watching it happen to other people. I was alone in the lobby seeing, but not feeling, that connection… that wonderful sense of being and celebrating Christ with one another. I wouldn't exactly call it a Christian attitude. Actually, I would call it self-absorbed. But as they sang with shouts I cried with tears and I cried alone. I couldn't breathe and all I could hear over and over in my mind was "Sing to the Lord with shouts ... "

Shouts. I wanted to shout. I even wanted to shout to the Lord. The part that scared me was what I wanted to say. I had worked for so long at accepting and trusting that what has happened to me will work out. That it will have its purpose and somewhere I am growing and learning to be a better person. But in that moment I simply wanted to know why. Trust? Have a deeper faith? Why me, why now, and why in this way? I had just watched over eighty people taking part in something that used to be my life. I watched them in those split seconds feel that connectedness that reminds us continuously of why we are all on this earth — to be witnesses to one another.

Witnessing. I guess that's the one thing I've tried to do with my pain. I tried to be the best little invalid that I could be. But as I sat there crying so hard I couldn't breathe and praying with all my might and sincerity to please, please have my life back, I wondered where all of this had really taken me. I prayed so hard for the feeling in the pit of my stomach to go away. I begged to feel nothing rather than feel this. I felt as though I was grieving for something somewhere. But I didn't know what it was. Just something. Just who I used to be. Just how I used to feel. And even though I prayed with my entire being, the feeling was still there. I knew I had to get a hold of myself. I had to get away.

Away. But where could I go? I thought of my apartment but it was too much of a reality. I needed a cabin in the woods where no one could find me. Where I could go until this feeling was gone and my acceptance was back. I didn't want to see anyone who knew me. I didn't want to see pain in anyone's eyes when they saw my pain. It's like a mirror reflection that is sometimes comforting because I know they care and sometimes terrifying when it becomes reality that this is happening to me, and that I cause this pain for others. In time I calmed down enough to reason with myself. I had just panicked. It would be better later.

Panic. I guess that pretty much sums it up. I can go along and do my best to do what's right, but in the end there is always that panic that reminds me of what I had and what I want back. It stares me in the face on that big screen t.v. that's big enough to be true to life. And I can't run from it. So what's left? I can pray.

Pray. Pray for more faith. Pray for more trust. Pray for forgiveness in this self-absorbed weakness when I should learn to be grateful instead of beating myself up for being less than what I was. Pray that somewhere in this I stop grieving for that something somewhere. Pray that I can be faithful to the struggle and become whatever He chooses for me. Pray that in the end, when I look back on this struggle, I will be grateful I had the chance to panic — because hopefully, it will help me discover peace.

Monkey Business

A few posts ago I mentioned that my Aunt Janella and Uncle Ron came to visit me; what I didn't mention was that there was a reunion of sorts. Meet Ron, Janella... and Monkey.

Cute, right? That monkey was given to Janella when she was a little girl, and it was the coveted toy for all of us kids when we would go to visit Grandpa and Grandma Frankl. Their house on McCook Lake had tons of exciting things to do... there was swimming and boating, slot machines in the basement along with an old victrola. There was even a big old bearskin rug (with the bear's head still attached... scared the stuffing out of me when I was little) that sprawled out across the floor. But when we went for the toys, we all loved Monkey.

 

That poor thing was worn and tattered with holes and patches. All signs of being loved consistently for many years. After we were older Grandma took Monkey to some stuffed-animal guru and had him restored for Janella. Whoever did it did a wonderful job because he looked like the Monkey we all knew and loved... just with a face lift of sorts. When I was in college at UNI and Janella was preparing to leave for her missionary work in Bolivia, she had me come into her office at the Student Center where she worked and Monkey was sitting there in the chair. My friend Kate was with me and thought I had lost my mind when I went ape (pun intended) over the toy.

 

Janella wasn't taking many things with her and wanted me to have him for safe keeping. Kate was rather embarrassed to walk out of the building with me as I was holding Monkey on my hip, much as Janella is in the first photo. But she started to grasp the importance when we saw my cousin Janet, who also went to UNI, and she almost wrestled me for custody of the toy right there in the lobby. But I was more agile back then. I won.

 

Obviously Janella has been back from Bolivia for quite some time, but Monkey has remained safely here with me. And I offered to let her have him back when she visited... but I think she knew she'd have to get past someone else first, and Riley wasn't giving him up without a fight:

 

 

True love conquers all.

Love/Hate

I have a love/hate relationship with steroids. I love that they decrease my pain and help me breathe better. I hate everything else.

Do you have something like that in your life? Something you are so grateful for and despise at the same time? Because I'm telling you, when I talked to my doctor and she said I have to start on steroids, I had a little sigh of relief at the thought of breathing and wanted to kick the door all at the same time. So, I'm getting ready for all the usual side effects of being nauseous, hot and sleepless. And let's not forget that my body takes all of one dose to remember how to get puffy. My favorite part.

But, oh my God, I might start breathing again!

You see my dilemma? On the one hand I can be puffy... on the other hand I can breathe. Puffy or breathe? Puffy or breathe?

To keep it in perspective, 30mg is low for me and I hopefully won't be on them for long, so I'm going to do what I tell others to do in situations such as this... I'm going to buck up and take it like a woman.

Really, people... you didn't actually think I was going to say take it like a man, did you? If you did then you haven't watched this:

:)

Life Goals

Quite a few years ago I was working at TeleProfessional Magazine. I really loved everything about it. I loved the administrative and organizational parts of it. I loved getting to do interviews and write articles. I really loved the proof-reading, which my brother Steve once told me makes me the oddest person he knows. But to me, it was like getting to play every day.

I had goals back then, about what I wanted to do professionally and how I wanted my life to turn out. I have a friend who has a special kind of date night with her husband so they can talk about finances and personal goals for their family. And I think that is good and necessary and responsible... something more couples should probably do.

The way to look at goals changed for me when my doctor first approached me about applying for disability. Maybe approached is the wrong word. I was sitting in a hospital bed (one of the three times I was in the hospital that year) with my laptop open, typing up dictation from an interview I had done so I could write an article. I'm sure you can imagine the look on her face as I'm hooked up to an IV of antibiotics and a Demerol drip... working was not what she had in mind for me to be doing. Recovery was more important at the time, but I was still in the mode of fighting to maintain a life that had already changed. My mind just hadn't caught up to the reality of it yet.

I would say Annie (my doctor) looked surprised, but I think disapproving was more the word for it. How in the world did I expect to get better and fight off an infection when I was expending all my energy working? That was happening in that hospital room, but it was the pattern my life had been following for awhile... I would get sick or be in a pain flare, just start getting better and then resume life as normal. And that normal would wear me down and start the cycle all over again. When I finally applied for and was approved for disability, I had to figure out what my goals in life were now going to be. And eventually I came up with this:

    Life Goals:

1. To not be ashamed to stand before God.
2. To fulfill God's plan by living the best life I can with what I am given.
3. To be aware and present in every moment.
4. To love what I have and not yearn for what I lack.
5. To spread the Joy, not the fear.
6. To be intentional in all things.

So far, I haven't had a situation come up in my life that hasn't been covered by these goals. It's how I want people to remember me, the impression I want to leave on people I meet. They are lofty goals. They're not easy to reach every day. But they are what I was left with when I took away the idea of having a career, having a family, having financial security or some sort of status in society. I think it's something I had to look at, but it's something I should have been looking at all along.

So, that's my story of figuring out who I want to be. And if you are thinking about who you are, where you are going and how you want to be remembered, I recommend starting with number six... being intentional with your life. After that, most everything starts to fall into place.

Unconditional Love

Have you ever seen a face exude more sympathy? I see this expression when he snuggles with me at least once a day. To clarify, I get the look once a day ... the snuggling is non-stop around here. He's very co-dependant. And I just want to make him happy.

Now, if I had my druthers, I would make it mandatory that everyone own a Riley so they could feel this much unconditional love at least once in their lifetimes. Seriously, being this loved makes a person happy. And happy people are kind to each other. And kind people don't fight. And when you don't fight there are no wars. Which basically means, people... Riley would be responsible for world peace. And when they present him with the Nobel Peace Prize, he will say he couldn't have done it without his loving owner who always made sure he remembered to take his antidepressants.

:)

Disclaimer: This post is brought to you by my tired brain on (prescribed and necessary) drugs. Any questions?