Defeat

The definition of defeat is to overcome, prevail, or vanquish. To be defeated is to have that definition turned around on you. To be overcome, prevailed over or vanquished. I would like to think that my Tennessee Titans will defeat (at least most of) their opponents. I hope that the people I vote for defeat their opponents. I hope my children will admit defeat and fall asleep before midnight tonight. I had hoped I had defeated panic and anxiety. I mentioned in the last post I was worried it might not last. My reprieve lasted only 24 hours after that post was submitted.

I feel defeated, overcome, vanquished. I feel like a man who tastes freedom after a year of imprisonment only to be caught shoplifting the very next day and thrown back into the slammer. I felt free for 5 days and I don't know which is worse; knowing freedom is out there and having it disappear, or never feeling it at all.

To say that I am upset at the latest in an absurdly long line of setbacks would be an understatement of epic proportions. I want to just....just....I don't even know. Where can you go to escape your mind? I pray. Maybe not hard enough, but I pray. I get angry when I get no response. And then there are the moments after. Once my brain has calmed enough to process without panic, I hear Him. Steady and strong, telling me to hold on. He tells me I have what it takes to win. Martin Luther King, Jr. once said: "I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. That is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant."

Defeat is only temporary. The definition of defeat works two ways. You can either be defeated or you can defeat. I can be vanquished by this internal battle, or I can keep fighting until I find the key that will vanquish all doubt. Mama always said that things lost are always in the last place you look, so I'll keep looking.

"When you pass through the waters,

I will be with you;

and when you pass through the rivers,

they will not sweep over you.

When you walk through the fire,

you will not be burned;

the flames will not set you ablaze." Isaiah 43:2

I have been asked why I keep believing in this God that doesn't deliver me from this even when I cry out. May I also remind that person I am not the only one who deals with this and some have it so much worse. I wish I had an answer that would satisfy you. All I can say is that I just know. The same way I know that even on a blazing hot day that someday it will be cool again. Just because I ask for the rain, and it doesn't come today, doesn't mean it won't come at all. I know it will.

A great song by a band called Barlow Girl sums it up best:

"I needed you today, but you didn't show

I waited for you, so where did you go?

You told me to call, said you'd be there

and though I can't see you are you still there?

I cry out with no reply,

and I can't feel you by my side,

so I'll hold tight to what I know.

You're here, and I'm never alone"

I'm never alone. Never fully defeated. And the enemy, the one that invades my mind, knows that, and apparently it pisses him off. News for you, my personal demon, I am now, and always will be a stubborn and relentless bad ass.My God made me that way. Bring it.

Forget me not

"I pray you now, forget and forgive." That quote is from William Shakespeare's King Lear. For those who slept through 11th grade English, King Lear spends the brunt of this play going completely nuts. In fact, half the characters in the play go mad, in large part to stubbornness and and unwillingness to forgive and forget the follies of others. In the end, only three of the main characters survive. The play is utterly depressing but makes some interesting...if a bit dramatic...points about misunderstandings, loyalty and forgiveness.

Forgiveness is my contemplation for the week. After last Saturday, and hearing those women's remarkable stories, I realized that a huge component missing in my life was forgiveness. These women had forgiven some horrible sins committed against them. Things that would crumble most mere mortals. They had also forgiven themselves for mistakes and missteps in their own pasts.

I can forgive others...most of the time...but I'm terrible at forgiving myself. I can give you a list of everything I've done wrong in the past year, past five, ten. Ask me to tell you what I've done well, and I'll make something up (and then feel bad about it later). It's not that I'm a martyr; not even close. I just have a really hard time letting things go. I let the intense fire of anger burn off, but always keep it on a low simmer, and before long, it still ends up burning down the house.

When I was a kid, and I'd do something I knew was wrong, I'd actually punish myself. I remember telling friends I couldn't come outside to play because I was grounded. The thing was, I grounded myself. My parents never did.

While I sat praying on Saturday night, I went through my ritualistic prayer. "Thanks for the day, Lord. Please bless my family and forgive me of my sins." I pray that prayer all the time. It's automatic, but that night something different happened. I heard, clear as a bell, "you are forgiven". I thought, "yea, I know."...blah, blah, blah. I started to raise my head and heard, more forcefully, "You ARE forgiven." At this point I thought it prudent to keep my eyes and my mouth shut and just listen. I heard, "My child, you are forgiven." That last one was like having someone shake you out of dream. My eyes poured tears and I took the first deep breath I've had in a year.

Do you remember that part in Good Will Hunting when the psychologist (Robin Williams) tells Will (Matt Damon) that it's not his fault? Will shrugs it off, but Sean keeps saying it over and over until Will first gets mad, then he just "gets" it and starts to cry. It was kinda like that.

So, the other part of Lear's quote is "Forget". There's where I'm stuck. I haven't had a single moment of anxiety or panic since that moment on the floor of the Boys and Girls Club gym. I haven't felt my heartbeat, haven't second guessed my breathing, haven't worried about passing out every time I climb a flight of stairs. It feels amazing, but I find myself shy to consider that God cured me, by helping me forgive (BTW, I don't think real forgiveness can be accomplished without Him. It's too big a burden to lift on my own). I have forgiven myself, but I can't forget and remembering keeps me in a state of reservation for fear that if I have a relapse after a moment like that... all the old doubts and fears will crush me like a tidal wave.

Should I try to forget? In forgetting, could I get myself far enough away that it never bothers me again? Should I put this past year in a box and hide it in my attic? I admit, part of me would like to end this blog here. Start another that has nothing to do with depression or anxiety. Would that be right? Or would forgetting negate the blessing? Would forgetting it ever happened somehow diminish the miracle of feeling better? I don't want to be like King Lear. I don't want to go mad because I can't forget or forgive. But much like those who survived the sad tale, to forget it completely would be giving permission for history to repeat itself.

So I'll pray for distance. If I have to remember, I hope it's like popping in an old movie. You remember the lines, but put it away as soon as ends and go outside to play in the sun. If you made it this far, I have something to tell you: You too, can be forgiven. Really. Completely. All you have to do is ask.

"For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened" Matthew 7:8

Patches of Redemption

{written two days ago}

Guess what? I'm a patch. Yep, you saw that correctly. I am a patch. Guess what else? So are you. I'm so excited, exhausted, honored, and a bunch of other complicated emotions I can't begin to name, that I could bust...or more likely, just pass out. But I hope I don't. I hope before this emotional exhaustion captures and drags me into dreamy oblivion I am able to explain.

If you have read this blog for any amount of time...or bothered looking at the subtitle...you know that I starting this thing as a kind of therapy to help me work through issues like depression, anxiety and panic. I have been in real therapy for these issues for over a year and tonight I learned that it's quite possible I have wasted a whole lot of money. Maybe wasted is a strong word...but I digress. Tonight, in a room filled with 14 faithful women ranging in age from mid-40s to late teens, I learned more about myself and my God than I have in over 16 months of therapy.

We were all put in that room by our church's youth minister. He asked us to go into a room and "bond" by sharing our stories. He gave us an hour...silly man. One after one, I watched as each woman bore her heart and shared her story. With each one more gripping than the last. These are women I have seen at church, in many cases, for years. I am ashamed to admit I had lumped most of them into "they have it all together, they could never understand what I deal with" category. On the totum pole of WRONG I rate below the man purse and perms. These women shared stories that, were the world to get a hold of them, would be turned into Emmy-award winning miniseries. These women have seen brokenness, they have experienced tragedy, and each of them is a living miracle and a testimony of the love of Jesus.

They trusted me with their stories so I won't betray that by describing them here, but I'll tell you how they affected me. I began the storytelling, and not wanting to be the spotlight hog for a change, kept it very brief. I didn't go into any of the issues you know about. Just where I came from and how I met Jesus on my personal road to Damascus. Then I sat for three hours (like I said, silly youth pastor man) while, one by one, they spoke of painful relationships, abuse, tragedy, heartaches and visions. They unloaded feelings of guilt, inequity, and shame. After three hours of unpacking, I have never felt so clean.

As we sat in that circle we all realized something amazing. Each of us, though our stories vastly different, had a piece of the story before. There were common family dynamics, or common feelings, or common results. We all found something in each person's testimony we could relate to. The most important being that somewhere in the midst of life's trials, we met Jesus. For some he came as the Great Counselor, some needed him as the Father. To one woman, in particular, he came as the Savior. He showed up for each of us in different ways. Tonight, He showed up as my Healer and Redeemer.

After all was said, and eyes were once again dry. One woman said we were like a quilt. Each patch is different, but when they are all sewn together they make a magnificent tapestry that wouldn't look complete without the others. All of our stories have been sewn together with a crimson thread. Within their patches I found healing and hope. The quilt we wove tonight, 14 strangers, I plan to keep with me forever. I will look at each patch, as the events in my life unfold, to find strength in the story.

Each of us has a story, no matter how blase you think your life is. Each person has a choice of how much to share. You can infuse your story with all the colors in the rainbow, or leave it with just a few threads. Either way, you are a patch and I beg you from the bottom of my heart: FIND A QUILT. And watch how God unfolds a story of redemption.

My Gift to the World

There are some days in your life that no matter how old you get or where you go, you'll always remember. You remember exactly where you were, what you were wearing, who was with you. You may even remember how hot or cold it was outside. It's a day that you mark time with. Life happened before that day, but after...everything changed. A wedding day is probably, hopefully, one of those days. Or maybe the day you got engaged. Or maybe you saw your team win the Super Bowl. That moment was a tsunami in the normal ebbs and flows of life.

August 13, 2007 is one of those days for me. Three years ago today I met Grant. Wilson was only a baby himself while I was pregnant, so I really didn't pay much attention to my growing belly until about a month before his due date. At that point, I got scared. How was I going to deal with two? Two BOYS? How were we going to afford them. Would they look alike, would he act just like Wilson (at the time that would not have been a plus). Would my boys fight or be friends? Would Grant ever feel second-best to his big brother since Wilson had been adored and spoiled from birth?

Grant came into the world at 12:02 AM on a Sunday. He was 8lbs and 5oz of mutinous baby. He was not as happy to see me as I was him. He screamed his head off the entire time they were tending to him. I was so proud. "Tell them how you feel, baby", I thought. He seemed so much smaller than Wilson had been, but that little yell was meant for a baby twice his size. All worries about how I was going to love this little boy as much as my first disappeared completely in those first few minutes.

Grant wasn't entirely healthy when he was born. He had a blood count issue that required a IV to be put in his head for two days. It was awful and my heart ached for the parents who had babies with even bigger mountains to climb. Grant just seemed so fragile...

...he got over it. For the past three years that mutinous cry has turned into a very smart mouth and that fragility to steely determination. What Grant wants, Grant gets, or Grant gets his grandparents. He's got everyone who knows him wrapped around his finger and he's not afraid to pull on the strings. These are just a few of the things we've learned from Grant this year.

• There is no such thing as too many sweets


• They sedate kids these day when they fill cavities for having an overacting sweet-tooth


• Boys will find guns whether you buy them or not. An empty toilet paper roll makes an excellent weapon.


• Whatever's Grant's is Grant's, whatever's yours is Grant's unless you hide it.


• Utensils are a suggestion, not a requirement


• Everything tastes good with peanut butter


• Every animal that is worth talking about says "RRRAHHRRRR"


• I am Bossy the Cow


• Daddy is not allowed to drive mommy's car


• Grandpa will give you anything you want if you hug him and say "I love you"


• Grandma and Nana will always give you whatever you want, nothing else required.


• You CAN adopt a Deep South accent overnight.


• Everything sounds better with an extra syllable. "Tha-yat", "Da-yown", "Ye-yah"


• The only sure-fire way to get mommy and daddy to let you out of bed is to claim you have to pee.


• If you talk to your poop, it comes out.


• It ain't a party unless there's cake.


• Is there cake?

Most importantly, Grant has taught us to wake up ready to live well, eat well, play hard, and do everything with passion. Today, three year's ago, Grant came, full of life, into the World. Dear World: your welcome.

Happy Birthday baby! Mommy loves you to the moon and back.

Homecoming

I could start this post with the question of what is home, but it's been done so I'll spare you. I will say that, for me, home has been a topic that has been like mood music in my mind, not loud enough to distract me from shopping, but just enough that I'm soothed into buying more. Because of my relatively nomadic childhood, one of my least favorite "nice to meet you" questions is "where are you from". There isn't a quick answer that doesn't make me sound either confused or condescending.

For those who are actually interested instead of just trying to make insignificant small talk, I tell it like this:

I was born in Kentucky.

I spent my childhood in Colorado.

I grew up in Indiana.

I lived in Texas.

I went to school in Indiana.

I live in Tennessee.

It's that third stop I'm going to linger on for a while today. So if you're not up for a brisk walk down memory lane, time to switch sites. I'm sure the Kardashians are up to something ridiculous. I moved to Indianapolis (Fishers, to be exact) when I was 12. I had lived in Colorado for 8 years and had loved it. It's really the only home I'd known up til then. I was only three when I left Kentucky, and while I've always loved the state of my birth it's always been like your first kiss, sweet, but not enough to write vows over.

It was hard for this 7th grader to leave the purple mountains majesty for the amber waves of grain, but adventure called, and I was usually up for the challenge. Indiana was different. It wasn't as relaxed as Colorado. There was much more drama. I LOVED that. I thrive on personal dramas and I was rarely disappointed. My first day of school, I was privy to a Tony-worthy one-act in which a girl in my science class about took the head off of the boy in front of her because he decided to break up with her during passing period. Apparently they were school royalty and had been dating a whole two-months. The entire 7th grade entered a period of mourning that lasted until after the final lunch bell tolled.

The first day of 8th grade I met the girl who remains my best friend to this day. It wasn't an instantaneous friendship, Jenny and I are quite opposite in a lot of ways, but for whatever reason (I'm going with God-ordained) she became the sister I never had and regardless of the many ups and downs over the years, or the distances, we've remained that way.

I experienced my first real crush in the 8th grade. I'll spare him the embarrassment of writing his name here, but he knows who he is. There isn't anything like a girl's first crush. It introduces us to unknown emotions that cause us grief for the rest of our lives.

Frustration, infatuation, flirtation, and almost always our first real heartache

. You are bit with the "I like boys" bug and you just can't go back.

In high school, I realized that aside from a few exceptions, I was better suited for male friends than female. As I said, I liked the female dramas , but I preferred to be on the viewing end, rather than stuck in the thick of it. My guy friends were a refuge during the awkward phase of my growth. They never treated me like a girl. While that drove me nuts at the time, I realize now that they shielded me from allowing my new-found insecurities to dictate choices that no doubt would have been painful. There are many poor choices I could have made, many bad-boys I could have dated had they not been there and been blunt about my stupidity.

Why, so long after events took place, am I suddenly dwelling on them? Because for the past few years, my depression and other such brain maladies have begun to shake my existence like my friend's P.O.S. jeep did when it hit 70 on the highway. I have needed something to blame. Some buried reason that is the cause of this mess. I've lumped it all on my high school years, dubbing them the "dark days". I have remembered rumors, low-self esteem and unrequited love. I recall bad teachers, bad cafeteria food, and bad acne. I remember moving from Indiana to Texas, and with the exception of a few blessed bright lights, being miserable. This past weekend, however, I spent two days with high school friends and could think of nothing but good memories. Even the moments that seemed incomprehensible at the time , could be remembered as coming-of-age stories that escorted us through our teenage years only to deposit us, 10-years later, on the doorstep of adulthood with friendships still intact, life lessons learned, and hearts long mended.

The cliche says that you can't go home. Well, to be honest, I agree, but I don't see that as a bad thing. I went home last week and it will never be the same as it was then. But I'm no longer a child. My perspective has been sprinkled with wisdom and aired out by time. The result is a beautiful image of what it looks like to grow up. Pitfalls and proms, boyfriends and braces, friendship, laughter and loyalty that make me proud to have been a part of it. Maybe you can't go back, but you can take it with you.

Dedicated to my friends in the class of 2000.

28

For the past two years, on my boys' birthdays, I write a letter to myself. Its purpose is to remind me what I've learned about my boys, my God and myself in that year. With all that has happened in my life this year. I thought it appropriate to make a list for myself. There are lots of moments I'd rather not have had to begin with this year, but to forget them would be a mistake. Every moment is a chance to learn something new. Maybe it's something about yourself. Maybe it's another person. Maybe it's people in general, or the environment you live in--or don't live in. Regardless, every moment answers a question you didn't think to ask and to forget them is to remain in ignorance. Ignorant people are not blissful-- as the saying would have us think--they are comatose. I'd rather be awake, even if it's painful.

Things I learned at 27

• Friends are God's version of Zoloft.



• Children are God's reminder that life is lived in the small stuff (like helping your two-year understand that it isn't necessary to bid farewell to your poop every time you flush)


• Sleep is essential.


• When sleep is a problem it can almost always be remedied with a large Revolutionary War history book. Seriously. Try it and tell me you aren't snoozing by page 5.


• Everyone should see a therapist at some point.


• Feeling beautiful can only be attained if you stop looking in mirrors. It returns the wrong type of reflection.


• My husband in incapable of putting dirty laundry in the hamper.


• It's a useless waste of energy to fight something like that when your spouse is your best friend and your personal super hero. Consider laundry his kryptonite and get over it.


• Get over it.


• Write down one good moment in a journal everyday. You'll need them on a day when you can't think of one.


• Traffic cameras really will catch you.


• Never confuse guilt with conviction


• You'll always need your mommy, even when you become one.


• Wikipedia knows everything.


• Transparency is best way of letting light into places that have become dark.


• DVD players are essential to peaceful travel.


• No one has it all together. Everyone is fractured, some people just use better glue.


• Budgeting is for geeks.


• Try to become a geek.


• Pandora can save one's sanity


• Sanity is often overrated


• I have a disorder that requires medication. There is no shame in that.


• I am healthy even if I refuse to believe it.


• Faith can't be explained or reasoned. It can only be felt and believed.


• I am not a perfect parent, which means my children will be saved from feeling the need to be perfect people.


• I cannot be "described" no matter how much my therapists want me to try. What you see is what you get...today. Tomorrow, what you see is what you get..and it may look completely different.


• I'm obsessed with the ellipses.


• I am a writer.

Most importantly I've discovered that God is all around me. He's in the people that love me, the music that moves me and the words that soothe me. For those who believe, there are no rules, only consequences, whether they be good or bad.

Thank you for reading this year. Whoever you are. I love you for being a part.