By Anne Williston
~ words meant for reality ~

“Faith is walking face-first and full-speed into the dark. If we truly knew all the answers in advance as to the meaning of life and the nature of God and the destiny of our souls, our belief would not be a leap of faith and it would not be a courageous act of humanity; it would just be… a prudent insurance policy.”

— Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love)

 

Living with uncertainty has been incredibly difficult.  Indecision can be heartbreaking.  I’ve always struggled when waiting was part of life’s equation.  I want to act – so I jump in with both feet before scoping out the water.  Consequently, sometimes I land on the rocks and injure myself.  If by jumping in I involve someone else (family, friends, etc), they suffer bumps, bruises and broken bones along with me. 

 

The past year has helped me to review my life, figure out what really matters so that in the future I might avoid hidden dangers.  I have learned to wade in first and check out the environment before taking the final plunge of commitment. Pain is a reminder I’m human – an opportunity to check my actions and correct my path. It is time to move forward.  I will only find what I want when I take a risk, trusting God will pick me up when I fall, heal me when I fail, and comfort me through it all.

 

 

Somehow, in spite of difficult life circumstances, I find myself in a place where I am having fun.  How?  Truthfully, I don’t know.  As I break the co-dependant habits of my life, I am finding freedom.  The race to complete my Master’s, finished Spring 2008, has ended.  I can breathe.  There are margins in my life.  I’m no longer revving frantically every moment of every day.  My motto, “Do it Now,” can be discarded.  I adopted it because I had so many responsibilities I had to do them weeks and months before actual deadlines in order to make room for upcoming requirements at work, in school, and at home. 

 

So, what’s my new motto?  I bought a new set of mugs this winter.  Each has a trio of words inscribed on them.  My favorite is “Live well, Laugh often, Love much.”  While out shopping with my teenage daughter a few weeks ago, I found a bracelet that has the condensed version: “Live, Laugh, Love.”  I wear it daily, a reminder that life is short and while it is sometimes important to “Do it Now” it is equally important to make sure my days are filled with people and events that encourage me to be myself. 

 

I want to live well: appreciate every moment of life as a gift to spend wisely.  I want to laugh often: life doesn’t have to be so serious.  Look for the humorous moment that can lighten my day and keep me from being tense and nervous as well as relaxing those around me.  Finally, I want to love much: give generously to those for whom I care most deeply; be compassionate towards those who cross my path even momentarily.

Your smug dismissal

of my hoping,

wanting, yearning

keeps me silent.

 

Neither separation

nor ending

do I seek.

 

I am trained to

render my voice

into speaking that

nullifies me

into you.

 

Yet, I remain.

 

You have ejected me

with burden intact

and untraceable

from its origin.

 

What is this wanting,

What is this sign?

 

You are indeed my rock and my fortress;
for your name’s sake lead me and guide me,
take me out of the net that is hidden for me,
for you are my refuge.
Into your hand I commit my spirit;
you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.

- Psalm 31:3-5

I walk upstream, pausing to take a picture.  A broken stump next to the river catches my eye.  I walk over carefully, observing the small greenery growing from its center. Crouching to take a photograph, I reflect on the new life springing from the dead wood.  Will it remain?  Can it find nourishment from the rotten, crumbling roots of what was once a strong tree?

 

I stand too quickly, turn, and fall into the hole where the roots of another tree once were.  I take a quick breath, as the stitches from my recent surgery pull, a reminder I haven’t fully healed.  I brush off my jeans, and walk farther along the river.  Finally, I turn around and head back.  I realize noone waits for me at home.  The kids are out with friends.  I slow my pace and decide to find a place to rest for a few moments.  I spy a rock next to the river.

 

I sit carefully, unwilling to overbalance into the water. I try to quiet my heart, which is lonely and filled with the anguish of separation.  My emotions stream along the surface of my soul, as the stream slides by, swiftly and smoothly, without ever stopping.  How can I go through each day, without letting those emotions overpower me?  It seems impossible to me.

 

Like the hole into which I accidentally stepped, there are emotional holes all around me as I walk through the day.  Some I can avoid, but others I have to try to walk around without falling in, and that is very, very hard. Some are hidden, and I stumble into them without warning.

 

Catching my breath, I force my head up and the tears to subside.  Else, I’d never stop crying.  My life isn’t over.  I must go forward.

I picked up a new spiral notebook to carry with me the other day.  The front cover declares, “Live Simple.”  The chaos of the past several years prevented me from achieving that directive in my life.  Now, every time I pull my notebook out of my purse to jot down a phrase or journal my thoughts, I am reminded that more stuff does not bring pleasure.  Hanging on to what I think I have will not satisfy. 

 

The cover is also adorned with the outlines of several butterflies.  Symbolic of transformation, I consider the fact that nature creates a safe space apart, where the quiet caterpillar becomes the butterfly.  It retires to the chrysalis, alone, surrounded by soft jade walls.  They begin opaque and gradually grow more transparent, finally cracking open, allowing the butterfly to emerge, a new creature, to a completely new world graced with the freedom of flight.

 

I have downsized from a large, chaotic household to a small, quiet apartment.  Like a chrysalis, it surrounds and soothes me with its silence, softens the impact of harsh reality.  I live simple here.  My possessions are limited, my responsibilities made more orderly and attainable. 

 

While not spacious, I am more able to breathe here. I contemplate the future with care; slow my reactions as I consider what step to take next.  I speak gently to my two youngest children, share quiet moments as they settle down each night.  Knowing next year will bring more changes into our lives, I treasure this year with my daughter, now a senior, soon to emerge herself as she pursues her dreams. We hang her new curtains, which I’ve just hemmed, enjoying the bold impact they make in her new room. I play cards with my 13 year old son, laughing as we enjoy matching wits.  Small pleasures make happy memories to hold onto.

 

Deep breaths to help us all grow.  Simple steps to direct us towards a life that allows each of us to become richer as we focus on relationship, not possessions.  This chrysalis will become transparent, and finally break open. I’ll have to emerge, but after my wings dry, I’ll stretch them, vibrant and strong, and sail into the sky.

“Christian faith is spoken into our bodies.” ~ Marc Ostlie-Olson. Luther Seminary God Pause. 9-4-2009

I have been made so aware of my body this summer (pain has a way of doing that).  My physical self is so weak!  But God speaks faith into my bones, into my flesh, into the center of my being.  The phrase, “gut feelings” is based in the reality that intuition manifests in physical clues to what is true.  Our guts are closely tied to the emotions.  Butterflies in the stomach, stomach tied in knots.  Worry can lead to many stomach problems.  Stress can exacerbate and even create pain in our physical center.  I spent six days in the hospital in mid-July with Pancreatitis.  Being so ill has forced me to take time out to evaluate what matters most in my life. While visiting my parents in Illinois, far from home, I found myself in so much pain that I asked my Mom to take me to the hospital.  The adult returns to the position of the child. 

 

We cannot live without a pancreas.  It orchestrates the absorption of nourishment into our bodies. The pancreas sits a little to the left in the center of the body, just under the breasts, beneath the stomach.  The pain literally doubled me over, made it impossible to walk upright.  The treatment is to stop all food and drink by mouth, deliver liquids to the body by IV, allowing the pancreas to rest.  Without the ability to rest, the pancreas could be damaged and possibly quit functioning or cause other organs to be damaged.  It is a powerful organ – controlling the life of the body as much as the heart, perhaps even more.  The pancreas has a dual function – it secretes enzymes into the digestive system and hormones into the blood. 

 

In my helplessness, over the course of my stay in the hospital, I realized there are many, many circumstances that I have tolerated, some for numerous years, that I can no longer allow to exist.  I must infuse the power of the pancreas into my life.  Rather than continue as a victim, without control to change my circumstances. I must take control of the habits, and the lies I have told myself that twisted my guts into knots, and made bile rise in my throat as I choked down and suppressed my emotional pain. I am not a victim and I have the power to change.  I can find a way to take six days of emotional rest, as I was forced to take six days of physical rest.  I’ve taken the first steps to reduce stress, to simplify my life and introduce some control back where there was no control.  I am claiming the power of the pancreas as my own.

 

My daughter and I walked down

to the bridge on main street, laughing

as we slipped along the sidewalk in the

dark, she cuddling her small dog to her

chest, and I leading the way, walking

swiftly, ducking the fingers of low branches

that sought to snag our hair.  We stopped

on the corner, before crossing, listening

to the loud report of fireworks. Still, we

could not see their bloom in the sky

before us. Misty rain coated our skin,

hair-raised, goose-pimpled. We laughed. 

Should we go on?  The rain began to soak

into our clothing.  The sign changed to walk;

we raced across the street, turned, and hurried

past the apartment building blocking our view

of the river. We reached the bridge

on Main Street, panting lightly. Turning,

looking down the river towards the park,

we gazed in admiration as the fireworks

continued to pepper the sky with color,

man-made thunder blasting through the rain.

My daughter’s eyes sparkled. So beautiful,

she sighed.  Delight stretched the minutes

as we watched in wordless wonder,

together in the rain.

Two old cars and a full size van are broken down in my driveway.  Two of the cars belong to my oldest daughter.  The first I convinced her to buy only to discover its electric system is a mess.  The blinkers don’t work, so it isn’t safe to drive.  Now, the battery is dead.  The second, her Dad helped her buy from a friend of our oldest son, Rob.  My husband knows how to replace the necessary part.  But, he’s been stymied by the right front wheel.  In order to replace the broken part, the wheel must be removed.  The wheel can’t be removed because two of the five lugnuts are completely stripped.  We’ve had a mechanic over, who couldn’t remove them and didn’t charge (thankfully) when he couldn’t.  Friends of my son Danny have all taken a hand in trying to remove them.  It became a strength contest.  Strong, young men versus the car.  Guess who has won so far?  The next suggestion is to use a blow-torch to heat the nuts to make them come loose.  My husband borrowed a small torch from a friend.  Rob and his roommate, Jared, came to help.  Unfortunately, the torch wouldn’t work.  So, the car still sits in the drive. 

 

As the car saga unfolded, the school year came to an end.  I was discussing, somewhat manically, the car situation in my yard.  In addition, the roof of the garage is rotten, and the backyard fence is sagging inwards in various places. Our old house continues to molder in various ways.  We continue to fight the fight against termites, sagging floors and an electric box that needs replacement.  However, my bedroom is redone and the bathroom was recently remodeled (after replacing a termite-infested floor).  There is some hope.

 

I asked my co-worker why no end-of-year party was scheduled.  No one had volunteered to host it, Debbie told me.  “Well, we could have it at my house, but for the dead cars, broken fence, and house in need of repairs.”  I laughed.  “I’ll call it a ‘white trash’ party and we’ll be all set.”  We both laughed.  Pause.  “Why not?”  The motto of the party became, “It is what it is” which I painted on a piece of barn wood pulled off the wall of another room we are renovating.  Nailed to the back fence, it looks quite inspiring.  It was the final touch to our comfortable outdoor room furnished with various chairs picked up from the side of the road.  It has a great fire pit, made from a Weber grill that lost its legs.  When my husband had the inspiration to bury the grill and surround it with gravel, our outdoor gathering area was born.  We added some “party lights” and were ready for company!

 

Turning fifty has brought home to me what matters most: people and relationships.  Why worry about appearances?  So, my house is old and needs a ton of work.  So, half my yard is weeds, rather than grass.  Since we bought our house, my husband and I have rarely entertained. I constantly put off having friends over, waiting for that elusive time when our house and yard are finished. Deciding to host the annual end-of-year staff party gave me a chance to shrug off the supposed barriers to entertaining and chose having fun with friends over worrying about our housing and car issues. As we grilled hotdogs over the fire pit and enjoyed a wine tasting (Boones Farm, of course) I relaxed and appreciated the chance to laugh at life’s difficulties.  I may have to recognize that “It is what it is” but I’m not what I was. 

 

“Do you mind waiting out here?” My husband glances towards the room where his friend is hooked up to half a dozen machines, brain dead according to his wife.  She had her daughter call to ask his friends to come and say good-bye.

 

I wait in the hall of this bright intensive care unit, large oval command center surrounded by rooms with glass doors.  Some closed off with curtains but most exposing the occupant to any passing stranger.  I try not to peer into those spaces, keep my eyes averted from bleak possibilities that I’m not ready to consider.

 

My birthday is this week – 50, half a century, old to the young and young to the old.  Harold is 67.  He was born only five years before my husband. Sixties contemporaries.  My husband returns.  “Let’s get out of here.”

 

Apparently none of the family is in the hospital.  Mike says he is ready to go.  Visibly shaken, we quickly head downstairs and out to our car.  As we begin to pull from the parking lot, a white car pulls in.  It’s Pam, Harold’s wife, and his daughter. My husband opens the window and lets them know we will come back.

 

After parking, we go back into the hospital.  We head upstairs, to Harold’s room.  Pam isn’t there.  We go back to the family waiting room, and there she is, looking tired and pale.  We give her quick hugs.

 

Mike asks, “How are you doing?”  “Okay, I guess.”  I listen to them exchange surface pleasantries, a mask for the pain of the occasion.  I drift.  Suddenly, Pam’s words catch my attention.

 

“You didn’t know the real Harold.  After his first heart attack, he wasn’t the same.  He wouldn’t do what the Doctor told him.  They wanted him to rest and recover for surgery to unblock his arteries, but he wouldn’t.  Just the other day he was mowing the lawn. The goddamn machine they made him wear kept going off.  I’d hear it beeping and beeping.  He just kept on mowing. He sure was a stubborn man.”

 

A pause.  “He beat me, too.  Couple days ago, he was standing at the foot of my bed.  I’d just got back from the doctor – I was sick.  He started screaming at me.  He’d a hit me, like he used to, if my daughter hadn’t stopped him.  That’s the real Harold.”

 

Mike looked shaken.  He hadn’t expected Pam to express her pain in a matter-of-fact voice, devoid of almost all emotion.  I’d detected a shade of relief, and maybe remorse. What stood out was the phrase, “like he used to.”  She continued to tell us how Harold abused her.  Mike didn’t know what to do or how to respond.

 

“I thought all men were like that, cause of my father. That was Harold.  That was Harold.”  Pam wiped the tears from her eyes and was silent. 

 

When we turned the car around, to offer our understanding and support to the grieving wife of my husband’s friend, the shape of that grief was not yet revealed.  Soon after these unsought revelations, we left.  All the wires and tubes were removed a week later. No funeral was planned.  Harold didn’t want one, Pam had explained.  And anyway, there isn’t any money.  So, no celebration of a life would be made.

Mike was unnerved by knowledge he didn’t need and didn’t want about Harold.  His memories of a man who freely offered his help and smiled easily were torn in two by Pam’s revelations. Mike was forced to view a different face of his friend Harold, a face he’d always keep hidden away.  But, was that the “real” Harold? We all have faces we keep hidden away from the world.  Certainly, Pam had suffered in her marriage.  And there is no excuse for physical abuse. 

But, that wasn’t all Harold was - he was a good friend. The words of his wife didn’t change the friendship he’d always freely given to many people, including my husband.  His life cannot be reduced to one simple statement.  He was a complex individual - he was human. The smiles and the anger, the love and the insecurities, and much, much more: that was Harold.

 

“My God,” my friend exclaimed.  “It was just a valve! If my husband didn’t fix that right away, I’d throw him out!”

 

“Well,” I responded, “I’ve learned to let that stuff go.  Over 20 years of marriage, and some things just don’t seem as important.

 

“Bull. Quit rationalizing.  That’s a load of crap.”  She took a sip of her tea, and glared in my direction.  So much hostility over my husband’s lack of knowledge regarding hot water heaters!  He did get it fixed – it just took a summer of cold showers to find a way.

 

Judy’s succinct reply called to mind the multitude of unfinished projects around my home.  I have a beautiful, newly decorated bedroom.  We’d moved our room from the second floor of our old home to accommodate my husband’s arthritis, so Mike took extra care to understand and bring my desire for a restful place to life. When our roof leaked, the walls were damaged and new wallboard had to be placed, along with a new ceiling.  He rented a machine to blow insulation into the attic space. Of course, it jammed and he had to call for help from the rental place.  My husband painted the walls a soft green, not exactly what I pictured, but after mixing a couple leftover paints, he achieved walls that call to mind an early spring morning.  I splurged on cream-colored accordion shades.  Light, blessed light.  Our old room, while much bigger, was dark, and cluttered with papers and books I’d allowed to accumulate over the seven plus years we’d inhabited the space. Finally, all was done.  The result is a quiet haven filled with my Danish memorabilia – figurines and miniature reproductions of Olaf Host paintings. 

 

Today, Mike put up the towel rack I chose for our latest project, the bathroom, which is almost finished.  Though, I confess, there is still a missing baseboard in my bedroom. I love my new bathroom, and adore the peaceful air of our bedroom. Perhaps the small unfinished tasks should be left as is. Finishing a project seems almost sacrilegious.  To finish is to stake a claim on perfection, a state far from my own, or my husband’s.  Leaving small tasks to complete is a way of acknowledging our own humanity. 

 

Perhaps I am rationalizing again, as my friend Judy states.  I like to believe what I am actually doing is choosing to put my relationship with my husband before my relationship with my house.  After all, my house returns all favors by breaking down in some other fashion.  My husband faces the inevitable deterioration of our old house with grim determination, convinced his love for me and our family will enable him to conquer all.  Regardless, I savor the two rooms that are (almost) done as testimonies of his faith in our future as he invests his sweat to maintain our home.