I find that I think best when I write. If you choose to follow me, you will get a first-hand look at my thoughts as I contemplate life as a woman, wife, mother, daughter, writer, teacher, and follower of Jesus. Issues that seem to recur revolve around parenting, ministry, chronic illness, and teaching.
This post was written in April 2016 — after the first period on the couch and before the second. I was in motion, and I chose to reduce the amount of time I spent on the phone to put more margin into my life. However, my recent stay on the couch may have returned me to some old habits, so I am re-visiting this post in October 2019 to inspire a return to that practice as get back of the couch.
Sometimes when God nudges us to make a change, we make that change and then slowly over time notice the benefits. Other times, we get an immediate indicator that we are heading in the right direction. That happened for me this week.
If you read my recent post, Margin, you know that I decidedto turn off my phone from 8pm to 8am every day. I…
As we prepare to pack up our things and move a few miles away from our little house by the river, I am indulging in some reminiscing. This little place has held us and born witness to deep grief and miraculous healing; we have loved our years on this idyllic campus. Watching students transform from intimidated freshmen to courageous seniors has reminded us that life is a continuous series of transformations. We have had our own metamorphosis here. This post, written in October 2019, chronicles some stages of that healing.
Five years ago, when I moved into the little house by the river, I was exhausted and physically ill. For the first time probably since my childhood, I gave myself permission to plop on the couch and be unproductive. I didn’t come to this on my own — my medical team had advised it, and my husband had supported it. I needed some time to let my body recover from years of hard work. I needed to exit crisis mode and hit ‘reset’.
This is no news to you if you’ve read my blog — in fact, one of the reasons I began to write was that I was, for the first time in over thirty years, not going to be working or caring for children. I had no idea what I would do with myself if I didn’t come up with a daily task. And, writing proved, as you might have guessed, one of the means for healing.
The pouring out of thoughts onto a page allows them to be seen and felt. In the seeing and feeling, the healing begins.
The first layer of healing began with time on the couch and a commitment to writing. I spent a lot of time on the couch (and in bed, and in a chair, and on the floor). I drank countless cups of tea and have now written over 400 blog posts in addition to the countless pages that I have written in spiral notebooks and journals in the past few years.
That decision to spend some time on the couch and writing every day laid the foundation for a much more thorough mental and spiritual healing that would follow the initial physical healing. I didn’t know it at the time, but the first six months in the little house by the river was a dress rehearsal for the next several years.
In addition to the physical fatigue and illness that I brought with me to Ann Arbor, our whole family also carried with us some deep wounds from years of dysfunction. Some of that dysfunction was not too atypical — a family doing too much, trying too hard, and overlooking critical moments and emotions in the frenzy of day-to-day living. However, some larger issues were less than typical– eating disorder, depression, alcoholism, and sexual assault. And even writing the words, I realize that though these were devastating, they are not as atypical as I would like to believe.
And I think that’s part of the reason I keep writing about them. Sure, it is hard to admit that our family — the one for which I had high hopes for perfection — suffered in ways that we had never expected, but just as surely, pain happens to everyone. Every one of us suffer.
And so, when, a couple years into life in this house by the river, we looked our pain full in the face and crawled back onto the couch and cried and cried and cried. I didn’t stop writing. I didn’t retreat into my room, as I had in the past, to “close the door and draw the blinds”. I didn’t want to air each of our private pains publicly, but I also didn’t want to hide the fact that we were indeed hurting. I am not sure it was a conscious choice at the time — after all, I was lying on the couch in the fetal position, sobbing; how much clarity could I have? However, I believe I instinctively knew that my recovery was dependent on my writing — writing that was honest and transparent and public.
I didn’t write the details — I guess each of us can fill in our own. We can all find ourselves on the couch, immobilized, hurting, and in need of a re-set.
And I am here to tell you that re-sets happen. People get off couches. They start walking. They begin to smile. They feel hope again.
It doesn’t come quickly. Some people find themselves plunked in a great big sectional sofa for a couple of years or more. In fact, they’ve been there so long that the sofa itself takes on an appearance of grief, anguish, and decay, and they hardly notice. They sink into dilapidation, and it feels like home. So they stay there, watching Netflix night after night after night.
But slowly, gradually, light starts peeking in from behind the blinds, and they start to notice that the couch is visibly tired of performing this service.
It’s served its term.
So they stand up. They start taking walks, dreaming dreams, and envisioning a world where every day isn’t laden with grief. They start picturing places that exist away from the couch — places inhabited by people and experiences and opportunities. Venturing out seems a little daunting at first, so they proceed with caution — a coffee date here, a shopping trip there.
Soon they realize they are meeting in groups outside of their home, not only to gather support to sustain them in their long hours on the couch, but also to share support, love, and friendship. They discover they have energy for a walk before dinner, shopping in the afternoon, and rearranging the furniture.
But that sectional takes up so much space — what with the grief lying all over it, spilling over the edges.
It’s got to go.
It’s all part of the re-set. Room must be made for the new — new experiences, new dreams, new life.
So out it goes.
And just like that, a weight is lifted. A corner is turned. A brightness is felt.
Imagine the possibilities of life away from the couch. A life of dinners at the table, of walking in the park, of meeting up with friends. Of laughter, of joy.
I am here to tell you that re-sets happen.
I am here to tell you that I am off the couch.
Now — if you are at this moment slunk down in the cushions, chest sprinkled with potato chip crumbs, staring at a television playing mindless shows with laugh tracks, I have not one ounce of judgment for you. I only offer this: when you have cried countless tears and lain awake long nights, when you have thought that you will never feel joy again, hold on.
It may be a while, but the light will peek in from behind the blinds, and you, too, will find yourself rising from the couch. You’ll start walking. You’ll find yourself smiling. You will again begin to feel hope.
I will turn their mourning into joy; I will comfort them, and give them gladness for sorrow.
Jeremiah 31:13
Epilogue: Replacing that sectional was so liberating. My husband and a coworker heaved the pieces into a dumpster, and we made the room ready for a sofa, a loveseat, a chair, and an ottoman. Just in time for the pandemic, we had a fresh space in which to shelter and begin to dream of what changes we would make next. We started by purchasing a new vehicle, then we took a deep breath and started looking at houses. It wasn’t too long before we found a little space full of surprises — an office, a second bathroom, two guest rooms, and an enormous garden — where we can continue to grow.
This one goes way back to April of 2015, whew! I had no idea of the lessons I would be learning in this next chapter…but four and a half years later, the children are still leading me toward learning.
This morning I sat across from a six-year old boy who is learning to read. He has memorized many rules and exceptions to rules over the past couple of months. This morning he had so much confidence when reading some words — in fact he helped me ‘learn’ how to break some words into syllables and how to play some games. At those moments his eyes were bright and his smile was wide. But the same six-year old boy had moments of frustration where his eyes were focused on the words, his brows were knit together, and he just couldn’t make sense of the message. He could persist in trying to…
I wrote this in October of 2019, in the before time —before 2020 and its pandemic, its racial unrest, its political polarization. If this is not a wilderness, I’m not sure there is one. I wonder if you agree that this is one more opportunity for our us to grow, to be shaped by the One who loves us, and to turn from our wandering back to Him.
It was an extraordinary day that I’ve been thinking about for a week.
It started when my child called at 7 am to admit a failure at work. Some words had been spouted toward a coworker — the kind that aren’t easily called back. Supervisors had gotten involved and, rather than meting out punishment, had normalized the situation saying something like, “We are all learning. We want to support you as you grow through this.”
As I hung up that phone call, a nurse arrived at my door. I’ve agreed to be part of a study in which I set some goals to improve my health or quality of life, I track my progress, and this nurse follows my path, provides coaching and encouragement, and we see what happens.
Perfectionist that I tend to be — I immediately confessed a few habits that I am ashamed of and stated my intention of eliminating them. The nurse, fellow human that she is, reminded me that we are just setting goals — some days we will meet them, some days we won’t. That’s how life is.
We are all learning. Not one of us has it all together. .
When the nurse left, I started listening to a sermon I’d missed a few days prior. We’ve been in a series on Exodus for several weeks, hearing about the Israelites’ journey through slavery, the plagues God used against Pharoah, and — this week — the miraculous rescue of the Israelites.
They’d been suffering in slavery for four hundred years and just like that, h=He swoops in with shock and awe and delivers them out of slavery.
You have to ask yourself why? Why did He wait so long?
And then, once he had parted the Red Sea and delivered them from the Egyptians, why did He allow them to wander in the wilderness for an additional 40 years? Couldn’t He have spared them so much pain? Didn’t He see their difficulty? Couldn’t He tell they were lost?
And questions like that lead me to ask “why did you let me continue in my soldiering for so. damn. long. Why didn’t you send a messenger much earlier? Wouldn’t you have spared us all so much pain? Didn’t you see the difficulty? Didn’t you see the looming consequences? Couldn’t you tell we were lost?”
And I hear our pastor say, “In the difficulty of the wilderness, God shapes His people…God will place us in difficult circumstances, in challenging situations, in order to shape and form our character…and to strengthen our faith.”
We are all learning. None of us has it all figured out, and God wants to support us as we grow through our wildnerness.
I can see it. I can. I can see how through difficulty my character has been formed. The most desperate of situations have pressed me to make new choices, live differently, and see clearly. They have, indeed, strengthened my faith.
I was lying on the table of my physical therapist the other morning, chatting about some recent developments in the long journey we are on, when she said, “When the student is ready, the teacher appears.”
I’m ready.
As the Israelites stood next to the not-yet-parted Red Sea, the Egyptian army bearing down upon them, Moses said, “Fear not. Stand firm. And see the salvation of the Lord which He will work for you today. The Lord will fight for you; you have only to be silent.”
I have only to be silent.
I was sitting in an instructional meeting at work — me, an educator for the last thirty years — and I found myself being challenged to consider how my tone, my energy, and my language can motivate or demotivate my students. How the nuance of my voice, its inflection, and my message can make or break a lesson. The presenter said that we should use language that is calm, neutral, and assertive to direct our students toward their tasks. We should use messages like, “Read this paragraph, starting here,” in a calm tone, as we point to the page and then wait expectantly. When we give a clear direction and the space to respond, we provide safety — a secure spot for our students to step into.
Safety is everything!
Knowing I am safe, emboldens me to take a chance — to try reading the words or to even make a mistake. If I feel safe, I can try, because I don’t fear judgment or punishment or embarrassment. When I’m given direction from a calm, neutral, assertive voice, I don’t feel bribed, used, or threatened. I feel free.
The nurse from the study did that. She spoke in a calm, neutral voice, offering reassurance as we wrote out my goals. She showed me how to record my progress and scheduled our visits over the next eight weeks during which she will check in and offer support.
I breathe easily; I know I’ll be ok whether I meet my goals or not — whether I walk more, watch less television, or sit on the couch all day.
Moses (perhaps in a calm, neutral voice) said, “Fear not. Stand firm. And see the salvation of the Lord which He will work for you today. The Lord will fight for you; you have only to be silent.” The Israelites bravely stood there; the Red Sea was parted, and they walked through on dry ground to safety. When their pursuers followed, the sea un-parted and swallowed them up.
Now, long story short, the Israelites didn’t immediately apply all the lessons they’d learned from their time in slavery or from this amazing rescue, so they ended up wandering around in the wilderness for an additional 40 years, so that God could continue to shape them and turn their hearts back to Him.
And, coincidentally, after my rescue from the soldiering years, I did not immediately apply all the lessons I learned. Instead I ended up walking through some additional challenges through which God has continued to shape me and turn my heart back to Him.
Just yesterday, our pastor delivered the truth that I’ve been clinging to — the words that let me know I’m safe and that I can step into this learning day after day: “God in His sovereignty is in control of whatever situation I am in.” He, the one who has been with me through the soldiering, through every difficulty, through every rescue, through every lesson, is in control.
He keeps showing up because He wants me to know that He is the Lord my God. He knows I’m just learning, and He wants to support me as I grow through this.
He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.
This post, written in October 2015, gets dusted off in October 2019 — I needed a reminder of my role.
The other day I was trying to explain the term ‘juxtaposition’ to a student. I think I said something like, “when we juxtapose two items, we set them side by side in an attempt to highlight their differences.”
I’m sitting here examining the glaring differences when I juxtapose my life with the life of Christ. It’s embarrassing, really. Especially when I consider myself to be not only a Christian, but a leader in the church. It’s humbling, and sobering, to think that others look to my husband and I as examples of what Christians should be. In a perfect world, we would be mirrors that merely reflect the love and grace of God to all those around us. In reality, this mirror is warped, cracked, and positioned in such a way…
A weekend rich with family kept me away from my laptop, as it should have. When everyone had left, I scrolled through pictures of the weekend and reflected on how lovely it had been to have so many that are precious to us together in one place. Instead of coming right to the keys, I basked in the moments for a bit. So, this morning, I bring you a piece from August 2016, dusted off on this October day in 2019. What a blessing it is to reflect.
After long absences from my blog, I never know what is going to come out of my fingers when I finally make the time to sit down. Will I start writing about why I haven’t written sooner? what we have been doing with our time? what kind of students I am working with? How my health is (or is not) progressing? Or…
A couple of weeks ago, the Michigan State Spartans, in the last moments of a tight game against the Arizona State Sun Devils, attempted a field goal to tie the game and send it into overtime. Although Matt Coghlin put the ball cleanly through the goal posts, the field goal was disqualified because the Spartans had twelve men (rather than eleven) on the field at the time of the kick. They were given a five yard penalty before another shot at the kick, but Coghlin’s second attempt went wide right. The Sun Devils won the game 10-7.
It wasn’t until the next day, after countless replays of the game tape, that officials admitted that a Sun Devil defender had illegally leapt over the Spartan offensive line during the second field goal attempt which should have resulted in a fifteen yard penalty and a third attempt at the field goal. The referees had missed the call.
If the Spartans would’ve only had eleven men on the field, if Coghlin would’ve made the second field goal attempt, or if the officials would’ve seen the violation, MSU would’ve tied the game and sent it into overtime.
They should’ve had that chance because they should’ve only had 11 on the field, Coghlin should’ve made that kick, and the officials should’ve seen the violation.
I wonder if any players, coaches, or refs have replayed those tapes and thought to themselves that it could’ve gone much differently. The Spartans could’ve had a win. The Sun Devils could’ve lost.
But all the would’ve, should’ve, and could’ve won’t turn back the clock and change the result. It is what it is. What happened happened.
We watch ‘game tapes’, too, don’t we? We rewind to times of difficulty, loss, or failure and review in slow motion the exact moment where things might’ve gone differently. We try deleting scenes and inserting new clips, but it doesn’t work. The film is indelible. It is what it is. What happened happened.
My husband and I recently took a trip to St. Louis, mostly so that he could officiate at a wedding, but also so that we could bear witness to some old films. We lived in St. Louis for ten years, and surely we had moments of both victory and defeat, but it probably won’t surprise you to learn that our eyes were drawn to the twelve-men-on-the-field/missed-field-goal moments and not as as much to times of celebraton.
A drive through our old neighborhood pressed play on events surrounding our unspoken broken — memories of what we witnessed, what we missed, and what we can’t change. A stop at a traffic light on a busy road called forth images of a broken down car, a frantic teen, and a failure to understand the layers of pain underneath the surface. A walk through our old grocery store took me right back to the soldiering days of fitting in shopping between school and workouts and dance lessons and soccer games.
What a harried life we led. We were doing so much and moving so fast, that we didn’t take the time to assess the damages along the way. We didn’t watch the game tapes in the moment, so we kept making the same mistakes over and over again.
And now that I’ve finally taken the time to view the tapes, I can’t seem to look away. I rewind again and again, slowly analyzing missteps, oversights, and outright failures. I get trapped in regret and what ifs and I feel myself spiraling downward into a bottomless sea of grief.
If only I would’ve when I should’ve than I could’ve.
But I can’t. It is what it is. What happened happened.
On our recent trip to St. Louis, we grieved, but we also went to lunch with good friends, had coffee with former neighbors, and spent the day with former ministry partners who might as well be family. Our loved ones sat with us in our reality as we showed them clips of our game tapes — the grief and the celebrations. We laughed, we cried, and we dreamed.
We can’t go back and rewrite what happened, so how do we move forward?
I’m quite confident that Mark D’antonio called his team in for a film session on the Monday after the Arizona State game and, with them, analyzed each play — each one that worked, each one that didn’t. I’m confident they had a moment revisiting the twelve men on the field situation and the failure of the refs to make the call that would’ve given them one more try. I’m sure they clarified lessons learned and strategies to try again. And then, I’m confident, they put the film away.
And we’re trying to do that, too. We don’t want to delete our films; they hold too much. However, we can choose, after having looked their reality straight on, after having acknowledged our roles, counted our losses, and seen our strengths, to archive them. We can put them away in the vault for safekeeping. We don’t want to forget what happened, or deny it, because all of life changes us, informs us, softens us, propels us.
The Spartans couldn’t stay steeped in regret or what ifs; they had to move on. The next game was days away, and if they allowed themselves to swirl downward into the pit of despair, they would be missing an opportunity to prepare for their next challenge, their next game, their next opportunity.
And that’s what I’m trying to do now. I’m trying to prepare for the next challenge, the next game, the next opportunity. I’ve analyzed the mistakes, I’ve dwelt in the what ifs, and now I’m going to try to move forward differently.
Slowly. With intention. Eyes wide open.
I’m looking for redemption and restoration. And won’t He just do it?
Though you have made me see troubles, many and bitter, you will restore my life again; from the depths of the earth you will again bring me up.
When I wrote this post in July of 2014, in the midst of our move from one chapter to another, I had no idea what was ahead. However, God knew, and, in His mercy, taught me some lessons on rest and recovery that have become sustaining rhythms in my life. I light-heartedly wrote about silent rest this past Sunday (September 15, 2019), but make no mistake, rest is an essential part of life in this next chapter.
So, what does this rest, this being still, look like? I have no idea.
Right now we are 48 hours from the arrival of the moving truck, surrounded by boxes (both full and empty) with a to-do list that is slowly dwindling down. In addition to moving ourselves to Ann Arbor, we are also preparing to move our youngest daughter from St. Louis to Ann Arbor to Washington, DC all within…
A coworker asked me if I had plans for the weekend.
“Well,” I said, “my husband is going out of town, so I’ve made it my goal to not speak to anyone for the entire weekend.”
She laughed and said, “I get it.”
Now, I might’ve been being a little dramatic. After all, I did speak to one of my kids for a few minutes. I did visit with two members of my health team, and, ok, I did talk to my dog, Chester, while I was brushing him out.
Otherwise, silence.
Ok, not exactly. I did listen to some music and my daily Bible reading, and I, of course, watched a few episodes of Queer Eye, but otherwise, I’ve been quiet.
Right now the only sound I can hear is the clicking of the laptop keys and the sound of Chester’s breath going in and out.
I’ve paid the bills, worked on two writing projects, pulled some dead matter out of the almost done garden, and dragged all my clothing and shoes to the living room for a sort and purge while I watched Michigan State football.
Other than the two health appointments and the kick-off time of 4pm, I’ve been pretty oblivious to the clock. I’m so still and chillaxed that I’m sitting here with nothing to write about except how still and chillaxed I am.
We need this, don’t we? We need a morning to wake up, write down three pages of what’s first on our minds, do thirty minutes of restorative yoga, process the latest with our therapist, and allow a trained professional to assess the alignment and strains in our bodies and put them all right again.
We need a slow walk on a cool morning, a cup of hot tea, and a golden retriever lying at our feet while we do the things that have been set aside. We need the windows thrown open, the taste of fresh-picked tomatoes, and a couple low-key projects that can be finished in a an hour or two.
The world’s been yelling at us all week long about what it needs from us, and before we head back to it, we could really use some time to rest, to recover, to remember who we are and what is important to us –how we like to spend our time, what kinds of things make us feel healthy and whole.
You might have a different strategy — you might recover by surrounding yourself with people, by reading a book or taking a nap, by cooking a gourmet meal or going for an extra long run. You might want to watch the game in a sports bar or a crowded stadium or you might prefer hiking a mountain alone. You might want to sleep ’til noon or dance ’til midnight.
Whatever it is that restores you, that fills you up, that heals you — take the time to do it.
Our lives are so busy, and the demands on us are great. We manage so many responsibilities and process so much information. We need to give ourselves time to recover, to be still, to be silent.
And that’s all I have to say on the subject.
I’ve used up my quota of words for the day.
The apostles then rendezvoused with Jesus and reported on all that they had done and taught. Jesus said, “Come off by yourselves; let’s take a break and get a little rest.” For there was constant coming and going. They didn’t even have time to eat.
After writing Monday’s post (found here), I stumbled across this one from March 2016, that uses some of the exact same language. This happens quite often — I find that I return to the same topics over and over again. I keep returning to the same lessons, the same messages, the same truths. So, here’s a message from 2016, brought forward to 2019…and I imagine, I’ll return again in the years to come.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been tempted to feel a little pessimistic lately. The presidential campaigns, acts of violence, international events, and their portrayal by the media could make a girl pretty cynical. Add to that the postings on Facebook and Twitter, and I might just walk around grumbling about the ‘terrible state of the world’. I might even be heard muttering things like, “this country is a mess,” “it’s only going to get…
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