Uninvited and Unwanted and Unwelcomed

Uninvited and unwanted, the tiny, grey mouse -- no larger than a swollen, brown pecan from a backyard tree pumped full of fertilizer -- floated upside down in our beagle’s water bowl, an unwelcomed but necessary reminder that I needed to stop trying to control all uninvited, unwanted, and unwelcomed intrusions in my life. Because it wasn’t possible.

Our house is an ancestral home. It’s a relic, an antique, a remnant of history from over 100 years ago. It’s old by American standards, but it’s quaint and we love it. It’s been our home for 30 years, but it has its drawbacks. The mouse was one. For even though we built a new house inside the old one, there are holes in an old house only the microscopic can see for an old house rocks like a boat, cracking and lifting and sinking with the rain and the drought. And even though we have an exterminator four or five times a year, the mice find those cracks and visit from time to time. And even though we don’t want them to visit, they still come.

This time, that one mouse in Riley’s water bowl was all it took to frighten me -- not of him, but out of the past few months’ exhausting, time-wasting efforts to control what I had been unable to control.

And then the tornado in Dallas, where our youngest son and his wife live, reminded me of the same.  

A change had come over our lives, a change that was not invited or wanted or welcomed, but a change that was here to stay. And regardless of how hard “I raged against the dying of the light,” a time of rocking along easily through life had died for now, and a thorny time of more turbulence had come. And I couldn’t control it. And, believe me, I certainly tried.

Unfortunately, trying to stop the turbulent waves of change -- waves that washed away the comfortable rhythm of our lives and left, in their wake, exhaustion where there was once peace and discord where there had been harmony -- was exhausting everyone around me, too. Metaphorically, speaking that is. We’ve just finished reading Heart of Darkness in AP English, and I’m feeling quite Joseph Conradish at the moment. Regardless, some of us accept change easier than others; some of us need a mouse to jolt us out of whining for what once was and hoping for what still is to come.

I didn’t like this change in our lives. I wanted my old life back! And I was exhausted trying to accomplish just that.  Exhausted trying to regain the lovely, peaceful, rocking rhythm, the serenity that surrounded us each day,  I felt overpowered by gloom whose touch grew more profound, darkening our hopes and weighing us down. Or so it seemed. Metaphorically, of course. Hyperbolic, actually. Joseph Conradish. It’s hard to stop the Heart of Darkness once it starts.  

“Enough with the Conrad,” some of my seniors would say. And yes, they would be right – though not about Joseph Conrad as he is a brilliant writer. But it was time to stop trying to control the change. Time to stop the Heart of Darkness. Time to adjust to a new beat that goes on. And it was also time for me to get up. And get over it. And get on with it. And every other preposition I can think of.

All it took was a bloated mouse, a mouse that might not have run up the clock, but certainly called attention to the time I was wasting doing what I could not accomplish anyway. To remind me that I might not get my life back the way it was, but I can still move forward, enjoying each moment and living life one breath at a time -- not in control, but certainly alive. To remind me that change didn’t have to be “the horror, the horror” (that’s for you, dear AP students present and past), but can be…..

Who knows?

I’m waiting to see!

And maybe, God will teach me how to look at the devastating debris that can be left in the wake of change, not through the unflattering lens of lost time, but through the beneficial sight of gained wisdom.

Mmmm….guess I couldn’t stop the Conrad after all!

Thomas, Dylan. "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"

Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness.

Catching a Fish

“Put another one on, Daddy!” 

Because I wasn’t catching any fish on our summer vacation, my dad caught my fishing line downstream, put a fish on my hook, and let the line go so I’d catch the fish all by myself! Of course, he didn’t know that I knew what he was doing; he just wanted his darling daughter to experience the thrill of catching a fish!

“Put another one on, Daddy!”

Imagine his surprise when he heard me yell for him to do it again!

And what a rush it was to catch that fish!

“Put another one on, Daddy! Do it again and again and again!”

Lord, help me to live my life

thrilled with the adventure

simply because I know you're there.

A flashback

Since I teach creative writing and Bible besides Pre AP English and AP English, many of the kids in my classes have been my students for several years, which gives me an opportunity to know them as well as any adult can know teen-agers.  And because I have, in a sense, become part of their lives, when their senior year draws to a close, I’m always filled with this deep desire to warn them, for I was once in their shoes. And flashing back to my first year of college -- for that’s one momentous event we will soon share -- I want to wrap them up in duck tape, give them a manual at least 12 inches thick, fit them for blinders to keep them looking forward to their future, and insist they walk around with headphones on, playing back every warning they’ve ever heard in their life. But, of course, I can’t do that. I couldn’t do it for my own children, and I certainly can’t do it for someone else’s children. Nor can their parents. Nor can anyone who cares about them. Besides, if I did, they would look quite weird and never make any friends! Life will come and with it experiences and choices, some they make and some that others will make, but which will also affect their lives.

Recently a college friend reminded me of the time my roommate and I walked into a dorm room immediately after a girl had a baby, an event so traumatic I usually keep it filed away in a box, only to pull it out as graduation rolls around each year. I was never having any children after that experience. Alas, our sons are 31 and 28, and my former roommate has two sons, too. Traumatic, unimaginable, a nightmare for us, really, but it didn’t stop us from having a family like I thought it might. And that, I think, is one thing I learned in college about life:  to continue forward despite the trauma of the past.

One day when he came for a visit, my roommate’s father brought us a maroon Aggie shovel so that, in his words, he could shovel his way into our room as we had lots of clothes, many which landed on the floor.  We thought the shovel was cute and a conversation piece, so we hung it on the wall and didn’t use it as he intended until some friends brought us an old bathtub from the quack shack that we used as a dirty clothes hamper, and then we finally shoveled the clothes off the floor.  And that, too, is another thing I learned in college about life:  you have to shovel forward to clean up the mess around you.

That same year my roommate and I also had a stalker, whom we called the boogie man as the word stalker hadn’t become such a buzz word at that time.  For months, any time we walked in our dorm room, the phone would immediately ring and someone would either breathe or hang up.  Hour after hour. Day after day. Finally, the police put a tracer on our phone and the calls stopped. Apparently, the boogie man was someone we knew. And that, too, was something else I learned in college about life:  to move forward past fear sometimes you have to ask for help. 

And then there were the guys who hid in our closet one day….

Many of us have an endless supply of tales associated with that first college year – some, wonderful and others, traumatic ; some, regretful and others, celebratory -- but all are memories from a part of the past, a time of experiencing life beyond what our parents could control. For me, it was also a time when I learned how important choices were, not just mine but those made by others around me, too. That there was power in the choices I made, but also power in the choice to move forward. To start over.

And so, as a new group of high school seniors begin to prepare for their own experiences, I flash back to my college years, not because they’re a part of my past but because they’re a powerful part of my present. I value those experiences, even those which resulted from my own poor choices, for they taught me to live life forward, letting the regrets birth the determination and desire to begin again. And to be grateful that life isn’t a dull standardized test with one chance at getting it right, but an exciting learning process that never stops.     

Signed, A Survivor

Kim Mathis, the Director of Focusing Families in our area, began the annual fundraiser explaining that a survivor would not be speaking to us tonight personally because the safety of the battered women and abused children was a number one priority of the organization; however, on the enormous screen behind Kim, countless testimonies from abused women who had experienced the support of the agency, some who might not be alive today had it not been for Focusing Families, screamed for our attention as the painful reality of their lives shook many of us out of a comfortable apathy of our normal, everyday routine and reminded us that the world is a needy place. Kim was right. One survivor did not speak to us last night; countless voices, however, were heard, and all their heartfelt comments were signed, “Survivor.” One word which says all that needs to be said and reminds us all that still needs to be done.

I’ve heard Kim, a poignant and powerful speaker, tell many stories about the desperate people who come to the agency for help. I’ve heard her speak about  family members forcing a younger sister on the street to prostitute, wives being infected with HIV from their husbands, women repeatedly fleeing from abusive partners, financial worries that inevitably keep many from leaving, and fearful worries about custody battles. The stories always have one thing in common: a life that needs hope and help to survive.  

As I watched the screen scroll with grateful comments from the survivors, I wondered which face belonged to the comment, “I felt so desperate and frustrated” and which battered wife commented how wonderful it was to “talk to someone who did not judge me.” I applauded the agency as I read one survivor’s testimony, “Y'all were strangers, but you helped me so much” and the one who wrote, “As a result of your service, I am not alone.” And I cheered when I saw, “If by some chance I make a lot of money, I’ll give a bunch to y'all. I could never repay you!”

I think their words were payment enough as appreciative comments continued to flow from the screen from women who don’t feel alone anymore and who feel “stronger and safer and secure” and even get “a little better sleep at night” because of Focusing Families. Women whose voices were heard by someone willing to listen, a critical necessity for many whose world is falling apart and whose family now doesn’t have to run.  

According to these survivors, the staff’s availability and kindness were at the heart of their actions and provided “the light at the end of the darkness” and peace as well as practical help.  

I was enlightened, too, as I read another survivor’s words of appreciation for just being treated “normal.” Apparently, what was normally “normal” for her was not anything like the normal I take for granted each day.   

And as I do at each Focusing Family event, I perused the room, wondering how many victims of sexual assault or domestic violence might ironically be attending this fundraiser, women and men who wear a disguise we all wear at one time or another, not necessarily of abuse, but a mask that says our world is all right when it’s exactly the opposite. And I was reminded, once more, of Kim’s comment, “We can’t peg a victim.”

And I was also reminded that lives are at stake each day. That it isn't just good to stay focused on Jesus, but it's extremely important to keep my eyes firmly fixed on Him. To invest my time on His behalf.  To care. To do what I can to help others survive.

Grateful for someone willing to listen, one survivor summed up the night with the words, “Thank God he has given me people to help.”  Signed:  A Survivor.

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Mission statement:  Focusing Families Crisis Center is a nonprofit organization committed to strengthening individuals, families, and communities through education, prevention, and intervention to eliminate family violence sexual assault and other crisis issues.

Services provided:  crisis hotline, crisis intervention, individual counseling, support groups, accompaniment services, legal advocacy, emergency shelter, community and professional education.

Focusing Families also operates a resale store, accepting new and gently used items. All proceeds from the store are used for the continued grow of the domestic/sexual violence victim services. All donations are tax exempt. 979-826-8024

Focusing Families/Po Box 1053/Hempstead, TX  77445/979-826-0332

Crisis line: 979-826-0000

 www.focusingfamilies.org

*Information taken from last night's Focusing Families fundraiser.  

One good thought leads to another...

Jerking the car door open, I jumped in quickly, but before slamming it shut, I heard Ian shout out, “I’m praying you have a really good day.” Yeah, right! I wasn’t in the mood to hear that. Standing in the doorway in his blue pajamas and with a hopeful smile on his face, my husband was waving like a man who really wanted his wife happy before she went to work. But I didn’t want to have a really good day at work. I wanted to have a really good day at home. 

I couldn’t help smiling at him, though, as I thought about how many times in the past 33 years he must have said those same words to me. And even more importantly, how many times he had prayed that same prayer for me. But his words were not what I wanted to hear this morning. I wanted to be irritated. I wanted to be cranky. And I wanted to stay home.  I’d been up since 4:00 AM, totally engrossed in a story I was writing, a story that was finally taking shape, and I was excited at this new endeavor into the world of fiction. The writing world of fiction anyway.

But griping’s grip began to lessen, replaced slowly by the memory of Ian’s grin, which I couldn’t get out of my mind. He had no idea how many times that grin or those words had helped me get through a trying day. And then, there’s his prayer. For me, no one prays like my husband. Straightforward. Direct. Exactly what’s on his mind. No beating around the bush. Usually asking for forgiveness before he asks for anything else. Usually with emotion right beneath the surface. His prayers are as felt by me as they are heard by God.

Then I saw it. One elegantly poised deer, motionless on the side of the road. Slowing down to savor the sight, I saw more - two, three, four, five…there were six. Standing aloof from each other, yet stronger together, before they gracefully galloped across the road and disappeared into the bush. A peaceful sight to still anyone’s turbulent thoughts. “Be still and know that I am God.” 

And I couldn’t help but be still. Then it happened as it does so often. Those six deer reminded me of the morning when several more deer dashed to the front of the school, gracefully pirouetting, before disappearing into that same bush, leaving me spellbound by a riveting performance that would have rivaled the Nutcracker.

And that thought made me think of all the deer at Red Deer Farm, a place where herds of deer transfixed all who drove by. Which made me think of the lady who had owned that farm and a Bible study lesson she had once taught at CBS three decades ago.  I don’t remember what the lesson was, but remembering her made me think of all the other women from those early years of Bible study and how much we loved each other. How I used to enjoy those Mondays and Tuesdays as we prayed and prepared together. How close I grew to God during those years.

And before I knew it, I was praising God. Thankful. Grateful. For my family. For my friends. For God. For his total involvement in my life.

Jumping out of my car after quickly parking in front of the school, I eagerly -- yes, eagerly -- walked into the building. A new day had begun. A day I’ll never have again. A day to rid myself of worthless thoughts and ponder worthy thoughts of God. A day God had already begun to make himself known.

“Turn my eyes away from worthless things. Give me a new life in your ways” (Psalm 119:37 Good News).