The Virtual Blog Tour (a post in which I don’t whine or cry or overthink)

Here’s a change of pace, friends. My friend, sage and yoga guru, Molly Field invited me to participate in a blog tour. You know Molly, from Grass Oil, as I’m always inviting you to read her amazing pieces that I promise will change your life as they have mine every. single. time. She’s writing a yoga series right now that is so right on, and one of my faves was 30 days of Carl Jung (my favorite late psychotherapist). Anyway, she is a super-talented writer, great mom, way-zen and bendy yoga instructor–like the total self-actualized package, and I’m so humbled to share a bit of virtual space with her.

So this blog tour: Basically, I’m going to answer a few questions and invite you to visit a few other blogs and experience a whole lot of awesome writing and meet some super-cool women. Ready? Here we go…

1. What am I working on?

This is a difficult question. Since my recent work doesn’t generate an income, I’ve been struggling through bouts of worthlessness of late. I recently confessed to my husband about a shopping spree that in the the past wouldn’t have been worth mentioning since I was earning my keep around here, but that’s a post in itself. So…I am working on getting angry less, being kind, loving, and patient more, and applying the Four Agreements. I am writing this blog, a book, doing a bit of bi-weekly editing, and occasionally writing some ad copy and press releases. The book actually has some stuff I haven’t written about here, shockingly, and is also why I haven’t been writing as much here.

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

My book is a memoir, as are most of the books I read lately. I would say that my work differs from others in the way every face is unique. In the way every fingerprint is distinct, so also is each story. Even if each of my siblings wrote a memoir, none would be the same because we experienced and processed our childhoods in vastly different ways. I love people’s stories and think they’re all important and valuable. Whether you tell your story to the cashier at Wal-Mart or type it out in a 50,000 word document that may or may not ever be read by anyone other than the people you trust enough to say, “Hey, would you…” it’s important to tell your story. So my work differs because it’s my work. Your work is special and important and remarkable because it’s your work.

3. Why do I write/create what I do?

I write to process things. I write in a notebook in my purse, in the notes app on my phone, on post-it’s or even sometimes my hand. Whatever I can find. Writing is how I communicate. If I fight with my husband, I write to him. We have been writing daily letters back and forth for about 2 years now…hundreds of thousands of words worth of feelings, experiences, love, anger, and indifference. (Someday, when we’re gone, and our children read those documents…oh my. We’ll leave you money for therapy.) I write because it helps me get out of my head, and also because it allows me to invite people in. When people comment on my blog or email me or text me that something I wrote about helped them or made them feel better or whatever, it helps me. I have a hard time letting people know me in my day-to-day life, so feeling known and understood through my writing is extremely comforting.

4. How does your writing/creating process work?

Sometimes like I’m “moved by the spirit” and have to stop whatever I’m doing and write something down. It could be a line, it might be a paragraph, or it has even been known to end up as a 1000-word diatribe. It is a strong feeling of: Stop whatever you’re doing and write this down. Now. When my dad died, I woke up at 3 a.m. and wrote his eulogy while sobbing at the kitchen table. Other times, I’ve had to run dripping wet from the shower to write something or yell from the bathroom, “CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE BRING ME MY COMPUTER!” It’s always bedlam in the Bell house, kids.

That’s when it’s good. When it’s bad, I avoid my computer and read and beat myself up about how I should be writing and read some more and compare myself to all these fabulous writers and criticize  myself for how much I suck…and then I read this amazing piece my daughter wrote and cry and start again. I don’t write because I want to; I write because I need to.

This has been really fun for me, not sure how it was for you, but I promise the best is yet to come. I get to share two of my favorite bloggers’ work with you. 

You all probably know Chloe Christina, my globe-trotting, Coca-Cola drinking, running, yogi princess daughter. If you haven’t read this tiny bundle of wisdom’s blog, To the Moon and Back, then take a moment and head there. You’ll be glad you did! I’ve always said she had an old soul, but her writing is light years beyond her 20 physical years on this planet. If I wasn’t fortunate enough to be her mom, I would stalk her on social media. I mean I all ready do, but it’s okay because I’m her mom.

And finally, please meet Sara. She blogs at Magical Musings and Typewritten Pursuits where she regularly shares beyond-her-years sentiments that will make you smile, think, evaluate and expand your Goodreads to-read list. She’s a super-talented writer and an all-around wonderful girl that I’ve had the pleasure of knowing since she was just a wee lass.

Thanks, Molly, for inviting me on your blog tour, and thanks, my friends, for reading 🙂

Less of Me

Last weekend at church, my pastor/brother-in-law brought the entire congregation to tears. He shared some really personal struggles. He was human and vulnerable. I cried so hard that I had a headache for the rest of the day. He is many things to me: Bible teacher, Christian mentor and my brother here, since my brothers are all there, and I value his words.

In his sermon, he mentioned my blog, which so touched my heart–I cannot even explain how much. Although many friends, acquaintances, and even strangers comment about my blog, none of my family does. My family doesn’t read it. My husband’s family doesn’t read it. My brother reads it. My husband reads it. My best friend reads it. But most people who are close–literally and figuratively a relative term–to me don’t.

That hurts my heart when I let myself think about it, which I usually don’t. But that is why my brother in law mentioning it made such an impact. I try really hard to encourage everyone around me. Probably because of my dad. My dad believed in me. It’s pretty amazing to have a person around who believes so much in you. It also sucks particularly bad when one day that person is gone, and you realize that no one really thinks you’re awesome anymore. Fortunately, without my having to say it out loud, because I am pretty bad at saying things out loud, my husband realized that I needed someone to make me feel awesome; he stepped in.

I try to be that person too. Not in a fake way. I really do believe in people. My son is 72 pounds soaking wet, but I wholeheartedly believe that if he wants to be a professional athlete, he can be. I believe that we are all capable of greatness through God. But I think we all need someone to make us feel awesome.

I don’t have a whole lot to offer to this world: mercy, faith, kindness, a willing ear to listen, and a heart full of encouragement for every person that crosses my path. Sharing my journey here is therapy for me but is also my way of offering empathy. Many times I have felt saved by reading how others deal with parenting, losing loved ones, turning 40, whatever it is I am struggling with at the time.

This year, I made a lot of goals, and in the past year I made a lot of progress toward letting things and people go. I realized that I need to stop taking people’s issues personally. It still hurts though. It still hurts when people who are supposed to cheer for you secretly rejoice when you fall. It still hurts when people who should support your kids make snide remarks about them. It still hurts when people think that because of the way you look on the outside your life is a certain way. Life isn’t fair, and it never will be. This year begins my fourth decade, and I will strive harder than ever to walk with Jesus and make less of me so that there may be more of Him.

I heard the still small voice

In the past few months, I have really been trying to spend more time with God. To achieve this, I get up an hour earlier in order to read several devotions and a couple chapters in the Bible. I started several months ago reading the Old Testament. Now, my Bible group is studying Ephesians which is extremely uplifting after being bogged down in rules and numbers and tribes and sacrifices for months.

Along with my reading, I’ve been writing out my prayers and free-writing. Free-writing is really just praying, closing my eyes, leaving my hands on the keyboard and letting whatever is in my head come out through my hands. After 15 minutes or so, I read, or try to read, what I’ve typed. Sometimes it is pure nonsense. Sometimes though there is a little nugget of something meaning full. The other day I must have had a song stuck in my head because I typed, “By His wounds we are healed.” If you think I’m crazy, you might want to stop now. It’s about to get crazier.

Like most Christians, I long to hear God’s voice, I long to be filled with the Holy Spirit, and for the past several months, I have prayed for that. Mostly I prayed to shut off my own voice and thoughts so I could hear Him. Guess what? I heard Him. I know what you’re thinking, but I promise He is much different from the other voices in my head. For one: He whispers and says nice things. Unlike my inner critic who says, “Really, fat a$$? A doughnut?” He says in a soft little voice, “You should bring doughnuts home for the kids too.” He didn’t really said that, but I imagine that it’s the kind of thing He would say.

While the inner judge criticizes people: “Puhleeze don’t complain to me that you’re broke, when your handbag cost more than my car,” the Holy Spirit looks kindly at her and whispers, “Maybe she has a wealthy relative who gave her that bag.” Unlike my inner paranoid schizophrenic who worries about everything and warns me about sexual predators and thieves and human trafficking and black market sales of human organs–I just realized that this voice sounds a lot like my mom, who now lives with me, hmmm. Anyway, the Holy Spirit advises, “Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything” (Phillipians 4:6).

Sometimes he speaks in Bible verses but not always. Once, I argued with Him. He kind of threw his hands up in despair and shook His ghostly head. I heard his very soft footsteps as He walked away muttering to Himself. Then my inner critic screamed, “Nice, you even managed to chase the HOLY FREAKING SPIRIT AWAY!!” I don’t like her AT all. But I did freak out a little bit thinking that I blew it. God gave me the Holy Spirit, I argued with Him, and now He left.

Fortunately, God knows what a mess I am and loves me anyway, so the Holy Spirit came back. He’s comes across like one of those people that your inner critics really want to dislike because they’re always positive. But you just can’t dislike them because they’re so nice and positive? You know the people who wake up happy. Me? I don’t even want to make eye contact with anyone until I’ve finished my second cup of coffee.

The Holy Spirit always has something nice to say. Something positive to suggest. He urges me to do kind things and to encourage others. A friend of mine wrote on Facebook today that the person in line in front of her at Dunkin’ Donuts bought her coffee. Isn’t that just the nicest thing? Then she in turn bought coffee for the person behind her. It started a chain reaction of kindness. I think the Holy Spirit was probably behind that. Seems like something He would do.

I read the other day that you should end your blogs with a call to action, so here we go: Try to shut off your mind, silence all the other voices in your head–I know I’m not the only one, and see if you can hear what God has to say to you.

Fabulous at 40…or F$%k you, 40

I haven’t really thought a whole lot about turning 40. I have a few more months to overthink the heck out of it anyway. And, while I haven’t really stressed much about it, lately, it keeps getting thrown in my face. I’ve been reading and following a lot more bloggers who share a common link: They are all right about my age: 39. These lovely ladies are smart, witty, uproariously funny, sarcastic, and dealing with many of the same issues as I am. Not only are they the type of woman I aspire to be, but they are also the types of women I’d like to sit around with and drink wine.

So add to that the fact that one of my best friends is celebrating a milestone birthday in a few weeks. We celebrated our last milestone birthday shortly after we became friends. Now, we’ve been friends for more than 10 years, and are facing yet another one. Seems like 30 and 50 were sexier than 40 and 60, but time marches on. Back when I was younger and sexier, I set out some rules for myself about turning 40. Some hold true, a few seem silly in retrospect, and I’m sure I’ll come up with dozens of dumber ones in the next few months.

1. Have cute short hair cut after turning 40. Well, that is not going to happen. Like an idiot, I cut my hair off when I turned 30 thinking I would look smart, successful, blah blah blah. Who says you can’t be or at least look like you are those things with long hair? Anyway, looking at pictures, I realize, I don’t look good with short hair. However, since I often take out stress on my hair, I am counting on someone to remind me of this. It won’t work, but I’ll ask anyway. The last time I cut my hair off, my family literally formed a human chain in front of the door and begged me not to do it. I broke through–I was a champion Red Rover player–chopped off my hair, and cried for the next several days.
2. No more babies after 40. Since I’ve all ready got one more than we planned, Brad and I have both taken permanent birth control precautions, and I’ve got my uterus on every prayer list in the country, God willing, this one should hold.
3. Be one of those smoking hot, fabulous at 40 women. Well, in order to achieve that one, I will need to stop eating birthday cake for breakfast. And really, I don’t care to be someone that men ogle, I really just don’t want people to ask my smoking hot husband if I’m his mom. Because I will drop someone if that happens. And I don’t want to be on the receiving end of those, “What’s HE doing with HER looks?”
4. Quit smoking. This is on every goal list I’ve ever made. I’d hoped never to start again after the last few quits, but here I am. That was kind of about number 3 too, unfortunately. Quitting smoking was really more about wrinkles than health. I know that is so superficial and vain, but I’m being honest. I was more afraid of looking old than actually getting a disease that could kill me. But quitting smoking was also about God. If you’re addicted to something, that addiction becomes your god. So, my decision to quit had a lot to do with obedience. I didn’t really feel I could truly submit myself to God’s Will when I was always asking Him to wait until I finished my cigarette.

That’s not really a lot of rules, but a few of the ones that have been knocking around in my head. I feel better having gotten them out of my head and into cyberspace. Plus, I’ve made room for more neurotic musings in my mind.

My girlfriend turns 60 in two weeks. She is fabulous. Even more fabulous now than she was at 50. So, I hope that at the very least I can follow her example and be a little more fabulous this decade than I was last. Since my early 30’s were kind of a trainwreck of losing jobs and finding myself, I should be good. But who wants to settle for good?

Pampered Prince

My husband is a great guy. Top notch. He works hard, puts up with all kinds of crazy, doesn’t yell or even get worked up very much. He mows the lawn occasionally, takes out the garbage most of the time—he really fell short in August, but we’re not counting beans—and sometimes even wipes off the counters when I’m with one of our children at one of their events.

I shouldn’t complain about him. But I do. Occasionally. This is one of those occasions.

I know my in-laws, and I’ve known him since he was a teenager, so I know he was not deprived as a child. However, he has this really annoying habit of using, eating, drinking, slathering on, (insert your favorite action verb here) things that I have specifically bought for myself or the children.

Let’s just dive into specifics. I have very thick, wavy hair—read that as FRIZZY. So once in a great while I splurge on some ridiculously expensive conditioner or $25.00/ounce Moroccan oil that claims to miraculously remove frizz. It rarely works but my hair feels super special. My husband has roughly 37 hairs. So, when I see him with more than the recommended dime-sized portion of said hair products in his paws, I want to shave those 37 hairs off while he sleeps. We’ve talked about it. I’m sure he still uses them “once in awhile.” Seriously? I am sure the guys at work comment how smooth and shiny his 37 hairs are once in awhile .

If you get the impression that I’m a pampered princess with ridiculously expensive hair crap, I’m soooo not. I only buy fancy hair stuff about once a year–usually in August when my frizz and patience reach capacity. And though I stand firmly behind my non-princess status, I did recently spoil myself by signing up for the Birchbox. It was my gift for quitting smoking, even though I haven’t exactly quit. Yet. Stop judging me. If you haven’t heard of it, for $10/ month, you get a fabulous little box shipped to you each month. It’s filled with delightful samples of products you’d probably never buy for yourself unless you really are a pampered princess, which we just discussed I am not.

Anyway, in my Birchbox this month was a packet of frizzy hair cream (it’s like they know me!), decadent body butter, a perfume sample, and a razor. A girly razor. Well, I was just thrilled because I have never owned a fancy schmancy razor and almost couldn’t wait to treat my legs to what I was certain would be an unparalleled shaving experience. I pranced upstairs giddy with anticipation only to walk into the bathroom and find my husband shaving with my new razor! I didn’t cut his throat with it. I did throw a tantrum that would embarrass most two-year-olds. And he said, “Jeez, I didn’t know it was such a big deal; I won’t use your precious razor,” as if I was being unreasonable.

 This brings me to the food. My two youngest children are Junk Food Junkies. Yes, I capitalized that on purpose. Their addiction requires Capital Letters. So, when someone eats more than their fair share of brownies, ice cream sandwiches, pudding cups or other corn-syrup laden processed disasters, wars of epic proportion break out. “LILY ATE THE LAST ICE CREAM SANDWICH!” Lily, who is nearly always guilty of anything and everything except lying, retorts, “I DID NOT!” Guess who did? Sigh…

Most recently, I got some samples of skin-revitalizing tea in the mail. I promptly brewed them up in mason jars and eagerly anticipated how youthful I would look with my fresh, invigorated skin. So you can imagine my surprise when I hear, “BLECK! What is this???” Have you guessed? Of course you have. There he is spitting my cherry-pomegranate take-all-your-wrinkles-away miracle tea into the sink.

This has happened before. Actually, he drinks anything and everything in the refrigerator. The Gatorade in the sports bottles that the kids LOVE. The last Coke. The last Sprite. The last beer. He polishes them off. Oh, unless it’s in a two-liter bottle. Or a giant jug, like grape juice comes in. Then, he’ll leave about a sip and a half in the bottom of the bottle that will stay in the fridge for weeks. Peyton came up with a plan, and we may just give it a whirl. “Mom, we should pee in bottle, put it in the fridge and see if he drinks it.” We haven’t tried it yet. We might. Be wary, my dear. Be very wary.

Glitter

This past year, I’ve spent a lot of time whining and complaining about my oldest child going to college, my youngest child going to kindergarten, and my middle child and only son not letting me snuggle him in public anymore. Admittedly, I’ve been a downer. I write another blog–No More Bellyaching–that is aptly named for the lack of whining and complaining. But, I get paid to write that one. This one is mainly to empty garbage out of my cluttered mind so I can write the other one.

And with that marvelous introduction, we’re off.

Last weekend, my best friend arrived from Florida. We have clandestine meetings a couple times a year, when she comes into town, to visit her family. She doesn’t tell her grandparents–who live very close and expect her entire visit to be devoted to them–when she’s arriving and then hides out with me for a few days. We spend these days doing mostly nothing, laughing, and spoiling my children. She has no children and refers to herself as my kids’ “favorite fake aunt,” which gives her license to buy them all sorts of nonsense they don’t need but really want. They share a lot of conspiratorial whispers and giggles and make me really squirmy and uncomfortable at the amount of money being spent on glitter, video games, and coffee. Respectively. Remember my kids are 6, 12, and 18.

This weekend was a lot of that. But thrown in with it, we had some really deep conversations. She is the very first friend I made when I went back to public school after a 5-year homeschooling stint. She was and is one of the most genuine people I have ever met. Although we were only friends for three years before her parents moved her to the Sunshine state, we packed a lot into those years. Enough that we are still best friends 26 years later.

We’ve had fights and gaps in our friendship. It’s hard to stay in touch when you can’t hang out together all the time like most best friends do. Once we didn’t talk for nearly ten years. Although as we discussed this the other day, it was a lot of, “No…10 years? Couldn’t have been!” But it really was. In those ten years, we both went through some dramatic life changes. I had another baby. She lost the only baby she’d ever carry.

Sometimes we get caught up in the missed time. Feeling guilty that we weren’t there for the other one during difficult times. It’s easy to slide down that slippery slope, but we catch ourselves. We catch each other. That’s what we have always done and what we will always do. The past is gone; we’ll never get it back. But we will also never take our friendship for granted again.

Last year for my birthday she sent me a card with two old ladies lying on the beach all wrinkled fabulosity in their bikinis. It said: Another year older, another year closer to the inevitable: Moving to Florida. Someday. This morning, when I was counting my blessings and cleaning pink glitter off every surface in my bathroom, I counted that girl twice.

Slipping Through My Fingers

Everything makes me cry these days: pictures of my friend’s new baby, my friends’ kids’ senior pictures, pictures of the homecoming dresses we won’t be shopping for, back-to-school shopping, the list of things Chloe needs to bring next week to her dorm room. Everything. I cried all the way around Target last week picking out sheets and towels and laundry soap. It was a little bit embarrassing. I hope it gets better next week, but this week: I’m a mess.

It’s funny how people who don’t even really know me are hesitant to ask me how I’m doing because even they know I’m gonna cry. Seriously. I signed Lily up for dance, and the teacher, who had been Chloe’s teacher as well, said very sympathetically, “So…how ya doing with the big day looming?” I’ve nearly perfected this really pathetic smiling-amidst-a-choked-back-sob response of, “I can’t really talk about it.”

Brad says I need to feel my feelings. I feel them, all right. He’s trying to keep me sane. The little ones are trying in their own way too, by misbehaving and fighting to the point that perhaps I’ll be so distracted with them and their nonsense that I will stop crying about their sister leaving. That’s not really working. Lately, my life is a dysfunctional cycle of crying, screaming, apologizing, asking forgiveness, crying, screaming, working, praying, and sleeping.

Even things that should distract me make me cry, like going to Peyton’s scrimmage last night, which reminded me that Chloe won’t be on the sidelines cheering this year. On a side note, watching your child cheer is a different and less nervewracking dynamic than watching your child play football. If someone could hear my thoughts at a football game, it would sound something like: “Please protect him, Lord. Please don’t let him get hurt. Why is he guarding that big guy? Is that guy gonna tackle him? Oh no, please, God, no! Lord, wrap Your arms around him. Run faster, buddy! Get up. Get UP. LORD, PLEASE LET HIM GET UP!!!! Thank you.”

It’s fantastic. Brad said one time that he’d like to spend an hour in my head. No. No, you wouldn’t. It’s a bizarre and frightening place.

I feel a lot like one of my favorite Abba songs from Mamma Mia:

Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
I watch her go with a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while
The feeling that I’m losing her forever
And without really entering her world
I’m glad whenever I can share her laughter
That funny little girl

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what’s in her mind
Each time I think I’m close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time

Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake, I let precious time go by
Then when she’s gone there’s that odd melancholy feeling
And a sense of guilt I can’t deny
What happened to the wonderful adventures
The places I had planned for us to go
Well, some of that we did but most we didn’t
And why I just don’t know

Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers…

And now, I’m crying, and Lily and Peyton are fighting again, and it must be time for a cocktail.

Pretty is as pretty does

Sometimes kindness is just selfishness in a pretty dress. My dad used to say, “Pretty is as pretty does,” which besides being a Peachism (my father’s words of wisdom, usually borrowed from a tv show or movie, such as one of his favorites, “Take care of you,” from Pretty Woman) didn’t make much sense to me when I was young. Now, I see examples of that quite a bit. Beautiful people doing ugly things. Good people doing bad things. Friends and family gossiping about each other. Christians taking the Bible out of context to spread hate.

A friend of mine told me recently that the Catholic church had done an investigation into nuns and found many of them unfit. Apparently, they were putting too much energy into such trivial tasks as caring for the poor and spreading love and peace rather than following their calling by the Catholic church–to stand up against abortion and gay marriage. The pastor at our non-Catholic church advises that we should strive to be remembered for what we love, not for what we hate.

Despite my efforts to do good, to serve, to follow Jesus, in the last two weeks, two people defriended me. Not just in the facebook sense, but in a real, “It’s been nice knowing you,” sense. These were people I know and love and who know me better than most everyone in my life. Granted, I’ve tried very hard over the past year to put my faith in God and not be unhinged by people who don’t like me, but that makes a person wonder, “What am I doing wrong?”

As it is, I really don’t have relationships with my siblings other than the occasional phone call or text. I love them, but I don’t really know them that well. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because our shared history is so pain-filled that it’s easier to remain distant. Whatever the reason, we’re not close. I find out things about them on facebook, just like the people I went to high school with and haven’t seen for twenty years.

So all of this brings me to selfishness and a book I’m reading that has really opened my eyes. How even the kindest gestures can be motivated by selfishness, if we perform them with the hope or expectation of reward or recognition. Many times, I have done something for someone and felt hurt later when it seemed my efforts went unnoticed or unappreciated. Selfish. Many times, I’ve helped a stranger and then told somebody. Selfish. Many times I’ve felt misunderstood, unappreciated, and left out. Selfish. Basically any time our heart is motivated by anything other than bringing glory to God through our actions, we are acting out of selfishness. And it’s really easy to tell exactly where your heart is.

When I let a person pull out in front of me and they don’t wave a thank you, I think: Rude. When I give my time or energy to a person, and only to find out when I need them, they have no time for me, I think: Self-absorbed. When I clean the house, and the kids promptly make a mess, I think: Ungrateful. What does all of this say? That I surround myself with selfish people? No. It says that all too often my motivation is myself not God. I am not serving others to bring glory to God, I’m serving to fulfill my own needs and desires.

People have said that about my blog. They’ve called me egotistical and said I post it so that I can revel in the compliments. If that were the case, today, as I’m analyzing my heart’s motivation, I would delete it and never share it again. But I can honestly say, I share it because I hope that maybe someone, somewhere will read it and feel understood, feel hope, feel the desire to get closer to God, and pass that on to someone else.

Hump of Tears

A couple times a year, I deal with bouts of sadness. Not the type of debilitating depression that requires pharmaceuticals or hospitalization, but a darkness that creeps over my life dissipating in a few weeks when my face is red and puffy, and I am on the verge of seeking pharmaceutical intervention. It’s a lot like watching a storm come in. I see the clouds and hear the thunder, and despite my willing it to change directions, it keeps coming. I’m powerless to do anything but cry, pray, and wait.

It happens in February, when my dad and my brother, Chris, died. And in August, when my brother, Brian, died, and this year, when my daughter moves away. Usually it creeps up rather slowly. I feel off for a day or so, and then I look at the calendar or the sky and realize it’s coming. This year, I was prepared for it. It started on Monday. I tried to shake it. I read more in the Bible. I got a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, which nearly always lightens my mood. I got some uplifting books from the library. But the rain clouds kept coming.

Yesterday, my girlfriend asked me how I was doing with Chloe’s departure just three weeks away, and I literally couldn’t speak around the lump in my throat. I finally choked out some sort of answer, hoping that she didn’t hear the sob I tried to suppress. I’m sure she did, but she was kind enough not to press me any further and just to offer some mom-to-mom advice. She did this just a few years ago with her own daughter. She knows. I am grateful for her. Because Brad really doesn’t want to talk about it, and I know that is his way of avoiding his own storm.

I recently read a memoir by a psychologist about the death of her psychiatrist husband. It was beautiful and sad and haunting and academic all at the same time. In one part, she talks about tears and how the chemical makeup of the tears we cry when we are sad is different than other tears. Evidently, researchers have found these tears contain chemicals of stress that accumulate in our bodies during difficult times. So crying is actually good for us, because it’s a biological way to rid ourselves of these bad chemicals. Oh, God, You are something else.

That made me think of my mom and the little hump on her back. She is shrinking from osteoporosis, and often osteoporosis sufferers get that little hump. When my brothers and my dad died, though, my mom hardly cried. Chloe said she thought all the sadness my mom hadn’t expressed was in that hump. Yesterday, after reading about crying, we decided that hump may be full of tears. That makes me simultaneously sad and curious. If she started crying and letting go of all the sadness stored in her, would the hump would go away?

I’m in no danger of getting a hump full of tears. I cry all the time. In fact, my fear is often that I won’t be able to stop crying. The beginning of August will come and go, and I’ll relive the horror of my brother’s death, and then that sadness will subside. The third week of August will come, and we will take our big grown up girl to Pittsburgh and leave her. I pray that I won’t fall apart. Then the last week of August will come, and we will put our baby girl on the bus to Kindergarten, and another beautiful bittersweet journey will begin.

Meant to Be

As our seventeenth wedding anniversary approaches, I’ve been thinking a lot about marriage. Thinking about my views on relationships then and now. Thinking about people being “meant to be.”

I have always been dreamy and idealistic, and twenty years ago, I probably believed more in that stuff. I’d heard the story hundreds of times of my dad, upon first seeing my mom, telling my uncle that she was the girl he was going to marry. That was my fairy tale, and I dreamed of one day experiencing that.

And I did. Upon meeting Brad, intoxicated by his beautiful lips–and Bud Light–I said that I would marry him someday. I didn’t know all those years ago how that statement would impact my life.

Meant to be for us turned into jealousy and anger and unexpected pregnancies. It became sleepless nights and low-paying jobs and years of college. It brought tears and heartbreak and disappointment and disillusionment.

It brought bad decisions, terrible choices, and circumstances beyond our control.

Meant to be. Bleck.

There have been more than a few opportunities to throw in the towel. More than a few times that we could have cut our losses, divided our lives, and pursued different dreams. There have been times when it might have been easier to walk away than to stay and weather the storms that seemed perpetually positioned above our fairy tale.

So when people say we are meant to be, I laugh, because regardless of what was meant to be, we made one decision after another to continue to be. We followed one path when there didn’t seem to be a light at the end of the tunnel. We loved each other even when we didn’t feel like looking at each other. We alternately blamed each other, resented each other, wallowed in self-pity and wondered why we kept getting dealt one crappy hand after another. And we kept playing those crappy hands together.

I wanted the meant to be of fairy tales. The happily ever after that doesn’t involve loss or death or hardships. That meant to be doesn’t exist.

But if it is true that God meant us to be together, then I’m very grateful that He has kept us from screwing things up too badly. I’m grateful that He gave us just enough happiness to make it through the heartbreak. I’m grateful He gave us just enough love to temper the anger and jealousy and resentment. I’m grateful He gave us the fortitude to keep going when it would have been easier to quit. I’m grateful He gave me one more minute, one more day, and one more year to learn to appreciate, understand, and cherish the love of my life. Because whether or not we were meant to be, I mean to be his for the rest of my life.