Category Archives: On Life

T is for ticked off

On Life, , , , ,

That seems fairly obvious doesn’t it? I mean, do I really need to spell out what being ticked off looks like?

The small child in the grocery store. The tantrum thrower, lying on the vinyl flooring, arms waving and feet kicking. Unintelligible shrieks and sobbing noises come from the flailing body. We pretend not to see them and confine our comments to internal dialogue. “Oh, my yes. That’s a tantrum.” And we somehow manage to pat ourselves on the back for being far more evolved than that.

But are we? Okay, I won’t throw you under the bus. Am I?

As soon as I picked the acronym P.T.S.D., I knew the “t” stood for ticked off. A large part of my journey with my husband through the dark and intrepid waters of PTSD has involved anger. My anger. At him. At the world. At life. And yet, now that I’m sitting here, I don’t want to write about it. I didn’t kick and scream in the candy isle because my mommy wouldn’t buy me a chocolate bar. Because that’s absurd. But there was much shrieking and flailing internally. And really, what’s the difference?

 I got angry. “Why do I have to deal with this? This isn’t what I signed up for.”

And then I would hear it. That little sarcastic voice in my head that thinks it’s okay to parent me. “So when you said, ‘For better or for worse, in sickness and in heath,’ there were qualifiers to those statements?”

To which I repied, “Well no. But he isn’t living up to his end of the bargain.”

“So you are mad at him for being human?”

And then I would get angry at that internal voice for being right. Yes, my husband had some things that he needed to deal with. But my response, my internal kicking and screaming demonstrated that I had some things to deal with too. We are both human.

Shortly after our son was born, I started taking him to the park. Normal right? And I would get a call from my husband. Still normal.

“How’s it going?”

“Good.”

“Where are you?”

“We are at the park.” Wait for it.

“Are you watching Isaac?”

Seriously?

“Nope, I dropped him off. Since he can walk on his own now and I thought I would run across the street to the 7-11 for a Slurpy. I’m mad thirsty today.”

That’s what I wanted to say.

It ticked me off that he would have the audacity to believe that I would be that irresponsible with our son. I’m not looking for mom of the year here but a little credit would be nice. What was intended as concern came across more as gigantic votes of no confidence.

I saw enough to realize that he meant well. So I ignored it. Or at least I thought I did.

Anger is like cheese. It doesn’t turn fuzzy and green overnight. But eventually, it does turn fuzzy and green.

And here is the irony. I was mad at him. He was the one ruining our family. It was his behavior that caused me to feel the way I did. He was making me so angry.

And then that exasperating voice, “No one can make you angry just like no one can make you love. They are both choices.”

Blah!

I could choose to be angry or let it go. But that wasn’t the choice I wanted to make. I was ticked off and I thought the choice in front of me was “Should I stay? Or should I go?”

But I’ll save that for next week. When you can read “S is for should I stay?”

P is for partially blind

On Life, , , ,

An outing to the zoo the other day warranted the taking of many pictures. My girls quickly took control of all picture taking devices and began to document our adventure. The above photo is one from that day. Can you tell what it is?

Yeah, me neither. After close inspection, I have made out some concrete and a shadow. Hardly a kodak picture spot. And maybe not a great representation of a day at the zoo but an apt representation of the beginning part of my journey into the world of PTSD.

P is for partially blind.

They say love is blind but I beg to differ. I think love is only partially blind. I was drawn to a man who is compassionate, courageous, and loyal. A man of honor. A man who takes his oath seriously. “I subscribe in word and deed to…fulfill my oath as a soldier of the law…” I was not blind to those things.

I was partially blind.

I knew my husband to have those traits. But I was blind to the fact that they came at a price. His loyalty and compassion are not bound only to the situations that he can control. He can not turn them on or off at will. So, to the little girl that died in his arms, he remains compassionate and loyal, even years later regardless of forced good-byes.

I was partially blind.

I can’t see her. I have heard about her and the tragedy of that day, but I have no vivid pictures, or smells or tastes associated with her. But my husband does. And the burden of those memories, of the hopelessness of the outcome, exact a heavy price.

The caring man I married grew more and more impatient and aloof. His sympathies began to turn sour like spoiled milk. One of our children would get injured and he would be rendered incapacitated. Nightmares, anxiety, and unending mantras regarding safety. Locks on doors, emergency drills and angst. The beautiful family I thought we had was changing. Or better said, the rules that governed our home were changing and I didn’t see it.

I was partially blind.

There was a new sheriff in our home. The past. Those moments in time when beliefs in justice demanded a different outcome. The little blond seven year old girl should have lived. But she didn’t. And that is only one image among dozens. Each tragic loss of life has a face, a name and a memory. The man of compassion and loyalty was being stretched to the breaking point. The past began to invade and it would take no prisoners.

I have since realized that although my husband has been diagnosed with PTSD he is not the only one who sees the past command unwarranted authority over the present. We stand in our situations. Our trials. Our issues. And we don’t want to let go. There is an obscure security in defining ourselves by our scars. Our battle wounds.

I saw my husband changing and I thought it was just his issue.

 I was partially blind.

And not fully seeing causes one to react. But my response to the unfamiliar and undetermined changes happening in our home is for next week. When T is for ticked off.

PTSD

On Life, , , , , , ,

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Panic. Temper. Strain. Depression.

Several years ago, I had no idea how four letters could turn someone’s life upside down.

Today is my wedding anniversary. Thirteen years ago I married an amazing man. I envisioned having beautiful children and a beautiful life. For many years that is exactly what we had worked to create. And then something changed. Suddenly a monster was living in my home threatening to destroy all that we had worked so hard to establish.

For years, the monster remained nameless. But its presence was no less intrusive. This monster laid open a path for fear, anxiety, even depression. And I felt helpless. It was terrifying and overwhelming.

I have alluded to this issue in past blog posts but there has been a hesitancy in me to discuss it in detail. Maybe it’s one of those things that is so painful it’s just difficult to talk about. But, it’s my anniversary. And I have much to celebrate. I think it’s time.

It feels impossible to transcribe our journey in a single blog post so I intend to make this a series. As I pondered how to cohesively write a short group of blogs I thought of doing an acronym. I seem to like those. So this will be the first post of five. Each post after this will highlight a specific part of our journey. And what better acronym to use than P.T.S.D.

Please understand that I am not a doctor or psychologist. Writing about this widespread and debilitating issue is strictly based on my own experience. And even that being limited. I am not the sufferer directly. I am not the one haunted and tortured and controlled by horrific images and memories. I am the bystander. One who has had to learn to love in the midst of the paralyzing unknown. However, I am intimately acquainted with the condition. I had a first row seat as I watched my husband wrestle and fight a foe that was unseen. I watched as the father of my children was nearly taken from me.

I am the spouse of a highly decorated law enforcement officer. He is courageous and honorable and broken.

Happy anniversary to us and I hope you check out the next blog, “P is for partially blind” and take this journey with us.

 

Hope

On Faith, On Life, , ,

Can you spot the flowers?

 

To conclude our mission trip to Mexico we had a time of sharing. Highlights. Challenges.

One of my teammates shared the profound. She was struck by the amount of hope demonstrated in unexpected ways. At first glance, all that could be seen was poverty. But as the days progressed, her perspective changed. In the midst of destitution and dirt, hope sprang up. The smiles of children, the wash hanging on the line outside, the bright pink and yellow houses. The tiny patches of flowers in unexpected places.

Small evidences of hope. 

As she was sharing, my perspective was challenged as well. I, who have much in terms of possessions, struggle with hope. It’s not that I don’t believe everything will work out. I do. There is an undercurrent of faith, a confidence that a sovereign God is at work. But faith is not hope. I believe God will work all things out but what do I do in the interim? Do I hope? Do I look expectantly at the good that He has promised? Or do I merely exist. Drawn through life on the tide of faith, never hoping or anticipating that good is close. That God is close and He is good.

Anticipation.

My internal dialogue has resembled a grey donkey with a similar grey disposition. “It’s raining again. It always does.” Downcast head and monotone voice. A cuddly donkey burdened by life and void of hope. I’m a lot like Eeyore. Not being like Eeyore takes practice. And it has occurred to me how I am out of practice.

Expectation.

Faith is believing that God is who He says He is and that He will do what He said He will do. And hope, hope is the excited anticipation of seeing just how He will do it. Faith is the soil. It is the foundation. The solid earth we build our lives upon. And maybe hope is the tiny garden of flowers so lovingly tended outside the house that has a dirt floor and no roof. Or maybe hope is the bright blue house surrounded by wreckage, need and hardship.

Hope.

So today, I pledge to practice hope. To build my life on the foundation of faith. To believe in a God mighty and capable. But also, to take a moment to tend to my garden. The tiny patch of beautiful flowers. To anticipate. To marvel at the creative ways God will bring about His plan. To hope in the unexpected.

Life is like choir practice

On Life,

We all take our places on the risers. 

The sopranos and altos and tenors all in their respective places. Sorted by the range of our voices. The director taps a stick on the metal music stand and announces it’s time to get started. The music is familiar though we haven’t sung it near enough to be able to get all our parts right.

I struggle to find my part. Was I supposed to be doing harmony? I can’t remember. I listen to the person next to me, hoping to hear the notes, but instead she answers her cell phone and tells her husband that she’ll grab dinner on her way home.

Oh yeah. Dinner. What am I going to feed my family tonight?

I look down to the front row just in time to see my youngest grab a pencil out of her sister’s hand and an argument ensues. My teeth clench together and my eyes narrow. I send threats telepathically until one of them looks up and sees my face. I give them the “mom” look and shake my head twice.

Meanwhile, around me, the song continues. Where was I? I listen for a moment to find my place. The melody jumps out and I grab it before it’s gone again. Maybe I can work out the harmony if I sing the melody for a bit.

I start to hear the parts and something pinches me. I look down to the front row and count heads. My three are still there. And there it is again. Ouch! I scan the other faces in the choir. Is it just me or does someone else feel that too? Who’s under the risers being a little bugger?

And then “she” starts singing. It’s unmistakable. Her voice almost takes over the whole choir. Pure and rich. Melodic and entrancing. How can I compete with that?

I question my place in the choir and wonder if I made a mistake. Maybe I should have volunteered to stuff bulletins.

Life is like choir practice. 

There are plenty of distractions and annoyances to keep my attention averted from the song. I get caught up in thinking that my part in the choir has something to do with my voice. But it isn’t about my voice. It is about my participation. But not just my participation. It’s all about my participation in the adoration.

In the midst of interference and trial I am asked, “And yet, will you praise Me?”

I joined the choir. I signed up to sing praise to the King of Kings. Currently, I find myself buried under the diversions and aggravations. I sing the notes from memory for the sake of singing. I hear myself belt out a wrong note so I stop singing altogether. I have forgotten that it’s not about my voice. It’s about my worship.

My job on earth is to learn to hear the melody of the Eternal Song and sing in adoration to the Creator.

Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. 

Whoever has ears, let them hear. (Matt 13:43)


Decisions, decisions, decisions

On Faith, On Life, ,

This is an actual sign in the middle of Nevada.

My husband stumbled upon this photo that he took on one of our camping trips. He suggested I write a blog post on it.

“Yeah. That’d be cool.” Feigned enthusiasm.

“You could write about choices,” he says.

“Yeah. That’d be cool.” More feigned enthusiasm. In my head, I’m thinking something else.

Choices? I don’t want to write about choices. Acknowledging choices means having to make them. And I don’t want to. (Whine and stomp added for effect.) My natural tendency is to set up camp in front of the sign. Indecision begging me not to commit. To cling to the hope that I don’t have to chose.

However, upon embarking on this blogging journey, I committed to embracing it. I chose to write on life, faith and writing. And since I didn’t specify whose life, that leaves my life by default. Blah.

So fine. Choices it is.

“This way” or “that way?”

It didn’t take long for me to recognize what choice I am currently facing. In a nutshell, I am forced to chose what I will do while I am waiting. My agent recently submitted a proposal for a novel I wrote. And I’m waiting. I’d like to think I’m waiting for a book deal. Then reality sets in and I realize I’m probably waiting for numerous rejection letters.

When I’m waiting for my children while they are at piano lessons, I read a book. When I am waiting at the grocery store, I pretend not to read the magazine bylines. When I am waiting for the lasagna to cook, I check Facebook. But this waiting, this is different. I’m not waiting for an hour. I could be waiting for months. Life must continue in that interim.

What will I chose to do while I wait? And the two choices appear like a neon sign in the arid dessert.

This way or that way.

On the one hand, or this way, I can choose to be content. I can chose to live in the moment. To lay down the outcome and trust. To recognize, book deal or no book deal, all I have is today. Or I can go that way. I can chose to wrestle for control of the future. To attempt to hold the unknown in my hands and mold it into something of substance. Like holding water in my hands and squeezing it until it becomes ice. Not improbable so much as downright impossible.

Perhaps both paths lead to the same outcome. Perhaps, next week (that’s called optimism), my agent will call and say a book deal is on the table. Perhaps the choice isn’t where I end up, but who I have become by the time I get there.

But either way, this way or that way, I get to choose.

L.E.G.S.

On Life, ,

 

Marriage is like a horse.

 

The potential strength and power of the relationship are dependent on limbs that are easily damaged. In my last blog, I posed a challenge.

What names would you give the four supports of marriage?

In presenting that question, I gave myself a great deal to think about. How do I quantify the essence of marriage in four distinct categories? What if there are five? Then marriage cannot be like a horse. Or, if it is, then it has to be like a five legged horse and I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s incredibly rare. But marriage isn’t rare. It’s common. As common as a four legged horse…It’s dizzying at times to be inside my head.

I’m not an expert on horses and neither am I an expert on marriage. This is just my opinion. But maybe, it isn’t about getting the list right. Maybe it’s about putting forth the energy and effort to recognize the investment required.

So, here’s my list. Set to the acronym “LEGS” for fairly obvious reasons. And, see? Four things!

 

Listening. Yup, got that one. Let’s move on…Wait, I mean really listening. I’m talking about more than just hearing. “I see your lips moving but all I hear is blah, blah, blah.” That’s not listening. Listening is an exercise in discovering what the other person isn’t saying.

 

Empathy. (Hey, I didn’t promise this to be a fun list.) What might it feel like to be the other person? What hurts and wounds do they carry that cause them to react the way they do? Put their shoes on for a day. If you catch their althete’s foot, you won’t complain about spending money on Lotrimin again.

 

“Great” expectations. Horses are strong. They can carry a great deal of weight. They cannot however, carry a dozen suitcases, ill packed and ranging in size. Don’t expect your spouse to be able to cart around all your baggage either. If the horse is struggling, maybe it’s time to start addressing the load it’s under.

 

Service and maintenance. A horse not exercised regularly cannot perform in an endurance situation. A marriage not maintained properly cannot keep going either. Spend time together. Do things that married couples do. Regularly. And if you see an opportunity to serve the other person. Do that too.

 

May you care regularly for the fragile legs of your marriage and may they, in turn, support you until it’s time for the glue factory in the sky. (Death do you part and all that.)

Marriage is like a Horse

On Life, ,
Versace, the greatest! photo by Jaymie Noland

 

Marriage is like a horse.

Some days, marriage is like a horse’s rear end.

But let’s focus on the big picture.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have been enthralled with the giant creatures. They are powerful and graceful. Fast and stately. Their ability to move their bulk with speed and elegance is breathtaking. And, throughout the course of history, we have used them to accomplish tasks we could not do on our own.

Marriage is like a horse.

It has the capacity to be strong and graceful. Stately and enduring. With it, we have the potential to accomplish what we could not do on our own. The combination of strength and stability has been the bedrock of civilizations for thousands of years. A marvelous creation.

And yet, like the horse, it is supported by four delicate limbs.

It is fragile. A slight break in the fetlock leaves the imposing strength of the beast ineffectual. A disruption of trust or compassion renders the relationship inoperative. A horse without the use of all four legs is glue fodder. A marriage without the full use of it’s undergirding is fractured and frail.

Marriage is like a horse.

The mighty creation rests upon fragile and vulnerable legs. I could surmise what those four legs might be labeled (and I will later) but I am soooo curious to hear what you would call them.

What are the four vulnerable pillars of marriage? Would you claim trust or tenacity on the list? Or tenderness and devotion?

Oh wait, here is a word that you cannot use.

                                  LOVE       

(Sorry but that’s way too vague. You all can do way better than that!)

So, name four things that every healthy marriage must have in order to survive and thrive.

Let’s hear ‘em!!

Pizza and mashed potatoes

On Life, ,

 

I have never been one to get excited about a smorgasbord. My children, on the other hand, get ecstatic. Macaroni and cheese with a side of pizza and another side of jello. A second trip for a plate full of fried chicken and more jello. And finally, a third trip for the mashed potatoes and sliced peaches.

Not a meal they would typically get at home. But the beauty of it is the choice. They get to walk around isles of food and pick only what looks good. ‘Cause that’s such a great representation of life, right?

Several years ago I had a checkup with my doctor. The subject of hormones was broached and I was asked how I was doing. As any self respecting woman would respond, I said, “OK.”

Undeterred, and obviously not buying my feeble reply, the doctor paused and rephrased the question. “Ever so often, say once a month, does your husband, or anyone else in your family, notice a big ‘ol pot of crazy and choose not to stir it?”

I laughed and cried at the same time. How could such a creative question not earn a completely honest response? And so I then said, “Uh, yeah, probably.”

The antidote for me against the big ‘ol pot of crazy is to run. Consistently. Not once a week or every other month. But consistently. I have at times practiced this and it seems to keep the crazy to a low simmer. The way I see it, I have two choices. I can run and be a functioning, rational woman. Or I can not run and be, well, the opposite.

Life is not a smorgasbord. We want it to be a trip down the yogurt isle where any flavor one can possibly imagine can be picked out. But, being the bearer of bad news, I must say, it is not natural to eat pizza and mashed potatoes at the same meal. And neither do I get to post-pone my runs for months at a time and not keep the crazy at bay.

I can bemoan the fact that I must run to function emotionally. I can scream from the top of the mountain (which I did not run up) that life is not fair. I can whine and complain how I wish life were more like a smorgasbord.

But I really only have one choice.

To run, or not to run? That is the question. And the answer? I’m thinking I need to start running again.

Is there something you know you really should do but you don’t like to do it? Please commiserate. I’d love to know it’s not just me.

 

 

Tiny Bubbles

On Faith, On Life, ,

 

Have you ever seen a toddler play with bubbles for the first time? Their fascination is captivating. They follow and chase the free-floating orbs with euphoria. A small round ball, a tiny bubble drops and every ounce of attention focuses. With arm outstretched, they waddle hurriedly to capture and claim the treasure. The bubble continues to fall and explodes, sending small droplets of soapy goo to the adjacent blades of grass.

The toddler stops suddenly. Frozen. Staring at what was. And then, the lower lip juts out and their brows furrow. Liquid disappointment falls down their cheeks.

Shattered bubbles are painful regardless of age. Dallas Willard says, “Reality is what we learn when we find out we are wrong.” When the bubble pops, reality is there to stare us in the face. The world is brimming with tragedy and pain. Suffering and destruction. Our rainbow like, soapy clean bubbles cannot shelter us. Our illusions of safety are fleeting. But security, that is an altogether different matter.

Death’s shadow passed by again last night. My husband missed the first two innings of another baseball game tending to a “clean up” effort of another demonstration of man and car vs. tree. Tree won. A few days prior, he was called away from an award dinner to an officer involved shooting. All officers are fine. Suspect died in the gun battle he started.

The world is a dangerous place. Death and pain run rampant and try as we might, our small, gossamer, self-constructed bubbles are no match. Fragile and translucent. They don’t stand a chance against the razor-sharp shrapnel of everyday life.

Not everyone lives with such demonstrative examples of this. But no one is exempt. No one can walk through this life unscathed. And yet, we put forth great effort to try. For many years, especially with small children under foot, our motto had been, “Safety first.” Often spoken tongue-in-cheek, none-the-less it was applied with vigor and vigilance.

But what is left when the bubbles burst?

We are not safe from pain and trouble. We are not immune to suffering or tragedy. Our hope cannot reside in the residue of tiny bubbles. But who needs bubbles anyway? Our eternity is secure and sheltered in the capable hands of the Almighty God.

“These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)