Vulnerability

not knowing

Children, courage, Faith, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
In God's hands

In God’s hands

Heather’s about to graduate high school here.

A beautiful girl, having recently met her first love.

Now, a grad student and 4K teacher, a teacher who loves.

A young teacher, already honored for her accomplishments.

The hard times in the middle,though.

Her change of heart and mind of college choice, now just a blur…an insignificant blip in time.

Then, the heart problems. The scary, wildly, unpredictable heart condition.

Middle of the night, tachycardia that wouldn’t slow down, hurried ER trips. Horrific procedures that tried but didn’t fix.  How scared, how vulnerable I felt.

Almost a year now of better. Perhaps, grew out of it. Maybe, it was just for a time. A reminder to embrace faith.

We did. She and I, our faith grew.

I think of the fear that I carried, the scenarios I imagined.

Austin was chubby here and still little boyish. About to begin middle school, running with his friends, all of them baseball stars.

Middle school came and went followed by a period of growing up, literally straight and tall.

Pictures of a very thin boy and questions of a condition diagnosed by whether his fingers could bend crazy ways and “Oh, I hear something unusual in His heart.”

All was well, through it all, well and good.

Now, a handsome, broad-shouldered (very tall) young man.  Weight caught up with height. Still same, one lip upturned smile. Still sarcastically handsome.

Senior pictures and college choices, already accepted by two of his favorites…got that behind him. Choice is his.

Still a whole lot of unknown.  A wishing of knowing what will be.

Tonight though, I am thinking about and praying for a mom I’ve never met. I imagined her as famous and as I began my writing journey months ago, hoped one day I could share my words in a big way too.  She has published a book.

Yet, I felt I couldn’t relate.  She is young, pretty, beautiful family and home I decided. I’ll just read her blog posts and be content to follow.

Then, I read about her son, Zachary and his mysterious, enigma of a condition that is causing his knee to swell. She poured her mama pain and worry into her words and I began to pray, still praying for Zachary.

This morning, her blog spoke of digging deep into your faith reserve.  I thought,  “Been there, came through.”

Let’s pray tonight for Zachary and for all the mamas like me, you, and Renee who might be in a place of not knowing, a place of trust in times of trouble.

Trust me in your times of trouble, and I will rescue you, and you will give me glory. Psalm 50:15

TMI – knowing too much

courage, Faith, Motherhood, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
Trusting without knowing

Trusting without knowing

I’m pretty sure I was rude twice yesterday.  A discussion was going on with a committee at a table across the room.  Someone said,  “I bet Lisa knows.”  I quickly spoke up and said, pretending to be not so serious,   “Of course, I do. People think I know everything.”  A friend’s face turned towards me as if to say,  “Got the message loud and clear, stop asking Lisa to have all the answers.”  Said friend is a board member and knows firsthand the variety of rather serious requests and issues I tackle. He’s a huge support. Still, his look said it all. I was rude.

Lately, though, there are so many things I just don’t know.  Things I thought would be clear, that are causing me to wait, requiring me to see my quite minimal role in the big picture of outcomes. The ones close to home and to heart, my children.  Things I thought would line up, using an “if this… then, this approach.”  What I’m realizing in this time of faith testing is just how little I do know…a lesson in humility and a reminder of my role in God’s plan, to trust.

I was able to answer the question. I did, in fact have the answer and since I was among friends, I hope only minimal damage was done. I apologized. The topic was suicide, all questions are hard.

After awhile, you just need a break from the hard questions. The not knowing and not being able to know is exhausting. After all, I’m not a Survivor of Suicide Loss, I just know people who are.  They are truly left not knowing, imagine their struggle, their fatigue.

I’ve met people who have told me their gut wrenching stories and so, yes, I do have insight on the subject.  That insight, those stories have taken up residence in my mind and so I notice, I contemplate, I filter circumstances and demeanor of friends and family through the chronicles of survivor’s stories. I look too closely sometimes, putting too much pressure on myself, probably those around me.

When it comes to suicide, people say things they shouldn’t.

People don’t say things they should.  

Still I know the checklist of signs, the right questions to ask are stored in my mind and far too often, I’m stuck in the quick sand of thinking, analyzing, researching.

What if this happens in my life?

What does this mood mean?  Will this disappointment lead to hopelessness? Will someone I love be so lost and alone or so in fear of what might be or what can’t be that they decide to take their life?

This is when knowledge is too much, too much knowing, not enough trusting. This is when God reminds me who He is and I am once again enveloped in the wings of His grace, His mercy, His knowledge….such knowledge is too much for me!

When I know too much, have too much expertise,  I forget who God is.  When what I understand overshadows what God already knows I’m nothing but perplexed. My knowledge is too much. It is useless and damaging, almost suffocating.  It is then I am lost and hopeless. Then, that I have positioned myself as all-knowing instead of knowing the one who knows all. It is then, I am reminded to return and rest…to be me, quiet and confident. (Isaiah 30:15)

Tomorrow, I will say a few words to welcome a group of Survivors of Suicide loss at our Out of the Darkness Walk.   I will simply remind them that I care.

When you’re happy and you know it

courage, Faith, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder
We sing, God sings

We sing, God sings

My degree is in Psychology. It started as Art.

Detours of my own making and a need, I think to make sense of my sorrows, my sidetracks and my childhood guilted me into Psychology.  A traumatized, self-destructive,  “adult child lost and alone heal thyself”.

I know a couple of young women who are telling me they want to major in Psychology. I know a little about one and quite a bit about the other. They admire my work with the homeless, with suicide prevention, and with those isolated by mental illness.

I care deeply about my work; but, I’m happiest out walking, with a book, writing or excitedly blending paints onto canvas.

Today, I had the chance to tell one of these young women about the most important choice of life’s work or career.

The choice to have the courage to do the happy thing…the thing that fulfills, that pulls you back in like a welcome back home embrace.

That’s the work of your heart, the God design for you.

I reminded her where she felt happiest because I have seen her there.  She told me again of her dream career…that thing she daydreams about thinking, “If I could do this one day…this is what I want to do one day.”

And as she describes her imaginings, eyes bright, smile peaceful, I say  “That’s exactly the thing you should do.”

Because, that is the thing God knows you should do, he created you to do.

So, what derails, hinders, handicaps, causes us to choose the easier, most predictable path?

We settle for fear that our dream is too big. We quiet our heart and hear everyone else. Do the expected thing.

Not Believing Good Things can happen for you is the smallest, yet biggest determinant in your goals, your dreams.

God smiles when we smile. He rejoices over us with singing.

I hear God singing more these days.

Reading my Book

courage, Faith, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
2014-11-05 15.49.47

Believing in me, inside out

Years ago, I imagined the most phenomenal breakthrough of breakthroughs to free myself from memories of trauma. I didn’t tell too many people because I realized they would wonder  “Why in the world does she think that way?”

I believe some people, knowing I put a whole lot of thought into this solution,  realized how serious I was…probably were sad for me that I would go to such extremes. Some avoided me.

Some, most likely reacted to the honesty of my revelation of trauma and saw me in a different light. Perhaps, even found me courageous for making it through. Maybe they treasured that dim little strip of brightness they saw in me not always overshadowed by the dark recollections of pain.

My idea, a medical procedure, brain surgery to identify and extract the section that stored traumatic memories, the ones that overshadowed, blocked out anything good.

The memories that would catch fire and destroy good days with the match strike of some unintentional trigger.

Essentially,  a lobotomy of the chunk of brain storing memories that kept me focused on what couldn’t be, of memories that spoke so loudly of my lack, my struggle to move towards enough…contented and deserving of good, of confident days.

I haven’t thought of my memory removing procedure in years. My memories are me, they are in every chapter of my book. The tragedy, dysfunction, and fearful pieces of my story are the scripture of my book.

My memories are for good, for declaration of authentic  “Grace of God saved me”  moments!

My memories are the words, lines, chapters in my book. Honest and open, drawing in the reader of my book.

Writing my book?

No,  not yet. But closer to trying. To feeling capable and worthy.

Right now, I’m  Reading my Book.

I’m really glad nobody tore any  of the pages out.

I can rest. The Lord has been so good to me, saved me from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling. Psalm 116:  7-8

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hope in a hopeless time

courage, Faith, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

10151750247541203_kindlephoto-30727298

I rarely watch an entire movie. I just don’t surrender my time so freely. HGTV is my norm. Last night I decided to try a mini-series, Olive Kittredge. I was compelled by the story of a marriage, a wife overwhelmed and her day to day moving through a life she felt miserable living.

I think I was hoping to gain insight, perspective on another’s struggle.  Earlier in church, I surveyed the sanctuary and for some reason a quote by Billy Graham’s daughter resonated, “There’s a broken heart in every pew.”

Hoping to see how Hollywood shed light on an everyday woman’s depression, I was looking forward to this movie.

My daughter came in and I announced, “I’m watching  thinking movie tonight.”  Okay, she said as the first scene began.

Absolutely beautifully made, the scenery, the lighting, the acting immediately drew me in.  The first scene, an older, unkempt Olive spreads a tartan plaid blanket on the grass in an open field. She adjusts the dial on a radio and the camera follows the movement of her hands to an object wrapped in a bright cloth, a gun.

She holds her gaze on the gun, smoothing finger over the barrel, opening to check for bullet.  My plan to watch a “thinking movie” not so good maybe, after all

My daughter looks over and says, firmly and protectively.

“Don’t watch this mama. You have enough of this at work.”

So, we watched HGTV while scrolling Pinterest and eating warm banana walnut muffins.

I slept well last night, thank you Heather.

This morning, I thought about suicide as I read the R.I.P. comments, condolences, seemingly sincere support for a woman who decided to end her life before her condition got any worse. She was hopeless and decisive.

Years ago my mother was very sick, very angry and depressed. She had no control over the leprosy type autoimmune disorder that had taken its toll on her internal organs and had erupted into horrific and painful lesions over her entire body.

My aunt, her only sister was trying to care for her. My mama, outspoken, intelligent, and independent got more agitated, hopeless, and belligerent every day, thanks to her pain and a high dose of steroids.

One morning my aunt called, exhausted and helpless to tell me my mama had a plan to go home to the country and shoot herself. I asked her to give mama the phone.

I told my mother to please promise me she would not take her life. I reminded her of her grandchildren and I told her I would see her soon, me and the kids.

She cried. I listened.

I called the Baptist preacher who loved my grandfather despite his beer drinking, carousing, good time ways. The preacher who knew the stories of our lives, my heritage. I told him I lived two hours away and I did not want mama to die by suicide. I asked him to go see her. He did. The same day, and called me later.  He was firm and loving and mama lived six months more, her body giving up, giving in because it could go no more. She lived until it was time to die and we all said I love you’s through tears and acknowledgement of God deciding her final breath.

I have heard many stories of suicide, of lost hope. I have listened to the common thread of the bereaved…the person who died couldn’t see beyond their condition, had no hope for better beyond the pain, the sadness, the condition(s).

The sorrow of the ones left behind is just as significant whether it be 3 days or 30 years. The retelling of the story, the befuddled shaking of the head, the why, this choice, this way.  The unanswered questions and the reality of what could have been what have been is a sorrow that is palpable. For those who loved and are left behind to solve the sorrowful mystery there is always the need to know more, the longing to have done more, said more.

I listened to Brittany Maynard’s voice, her platform this evening. Rational and thoughtful, firm and resigned to end her life it is difficult not to agree with her decision.

Still, what does this say of Hope?

Day 30: looking for good – what good will come

courage, Faith, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
Truth

Truth

Scrolling through my blog as I finish up this 31 day challenge, I feel accomplished regardless of who has read, commented, liked or followed.  I’m close to 100.

I didn’t think I’d go this far.

Clearly, I’m one of multitudes who love words and expression.

Looking closely, more closely than necessary at my life, my faith, my fears and then sharing

Writing simply, just in case somebody somewhere needs to know they are not alone, is an oddly beautiful experience, a gift.

My journey, difficult.  More difficult than many, less than some.  Everyone has some sorrow, some secret.

My experiences, traumatic…Some reckless mistakes down paths that went too far and had locked doors, keys hidden.

But, my story is of good that comes despite two steps forward, three back tug of war with self-control vs. faith, hope, and trust.

Why on earth would I write about struggle, pain, sadness, longing for different as a child, still burdened with heavy load?

How could I not?

Praying friends, say a prayer as I open the closed doors of my past to share tiny bits of my damaged past but now with  hallelujah and amen, because you should know  “What good will come”…what good has come!

This week, a verse found, resonated… circled, underlined with “Memoir” penciled in the margin.

You have turned my mourning into joyful dancing. You have taken away my clothes of mourning and clothed me with joy, so that I might sing praises to You and not be silent.  Psalm 30:11

Day 29: looking for good- dirt road to home

family, Motherhood, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
digging potatos

Digging potatoes A hundred years from now…the world will be different because of moments like these, with my children, dirt road riding, potato digging, grandma visits.

The joy of my mama’s house, my grandma’s house was in the dirt.  There was a path, a cut through to the pond that stretched right down the middle of soybeans on one side and corn on the other. When the corn grew high we couldn’t see my grandma’s house shaded by chinaberry trees. Those days, we’d run through the field, green corn stalks and silky leaves swishing against our skin.

Every year, my daddy planted potatoes and when the weather turned cool, the days shorter it was time to dig.  All our hands diggin’ them up at harvest.  I remember my daddy holding the little new potatoes, caressing them, dusting off the dirt and then rubbing them smooth before tossing each potato into the washtub.

The Fall before he died was his last harvest.  Heather and Austin sat in the dirt, laid in the dirt tumbling around while my daddy, feeble, yet determined supervised the potato digging. The cousins sitting in the field, their bottoms cushioned by the cool, damp autumn soil.

Little fingers sifting through the sand, enamored by its touch.

The cool, smooth pieces of home.

We moved away after daddy died; but, came back to grandma’s most weekends. We’d pack up and make the trip winding roads from Carolina to Georgia just to be in the country with grandma.

To run in the fields, fish off the dock, play tricks on grandma’s scavenger dog, Sunny.

Mama kept telling us the County was going to be paving the road.  She’d say,  “These people have raised enough hell, and running up and down the roads driving too fast, I guess they’ll get what they want!”   But, months and years went by and we still walked to the creek run-around and picked blackberries in the deep ditches. Heather learning to drive as we explored the hills, curves and valleys on the dirt roads of Peacock Hill.

Mama warned us one day they had paved the roads. “You’ll see next time you come”.  She tried to prepare us, describe the way the road had changed and how there were no more curves but stop signs and markers for my granddaddy’s road, “W.D. Peacock Rd.”

So. we hit the road to Georgia, to the house set back on the pond, down twisting dirt road off the highway, following the path to grandma’s .

Making our usual turn off the Highway 80, it just got quiet in the car. Time stopped, the wheels turned and the car moved, tentatively as we mourned the road.  Usually, I’d switch drivers, running around the back off the car, skipping along, passing Heather on the way to let her take my place behind the wheel or Austin sometimes would plop in my lap, steering.

But, the fascination gone now, we drove on like good, city travelers on a busy highway, my children behaving like a trip to school or the Dr. or even to church.

Resigned to accept the change, the journey had lost its joy.

Not the destination though, grandma’s house…at the end of the rutted, filled with washed out gulleys from rain, bumpy slow going path through the soybeans.

We lingered on the dirt driveway, bouncing along, falling into each other with every dip, slower, more intentional than usual.

Our brief time on the dirt road…our glorious dirt road home

Prompted earlier to think of home, to write about home, http://jenniferdukeslee.com

Day 23: looking for good – in the wide open

courage, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
brave Ivy Grace

brave Ivy Grace

Writing is like jumping off a high dock in marshy water.

Faces hovering nearby waiting to see you brave, each a commentary of probability vs. doubt.

Then, just like the arms wide open descent into the watery blue…the writer, heart wide open, writes her soul and approached by a friend hears  “I feel what you write.”

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside.”  Maya Angelou