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You’d be amazed

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

You’d be amazed to know what happens when you sit down, shut up, and pay attention.

You notice things.  You finish writing a confessional blog about sitting with your grief, walk a few steps to your bed, lie down, open the book you have been reading on and off for over six months, and the very next words that you read are these:

Maybe grieving over plans changed is part of the plan to change us.*

Then, after sleeping for just a few hours, you hop in your car and turn on a podcast** to hear two women discussing shame and vulnerability.  You’re stunned because as they share their failures,  you feel somehow drawn into the discussion like you’re a member of the sisterhood of the fallen.

As the podcast finishes, you arrive at a restaurant to meet a  woman for lunch — someone you’ve never met before — she offhandedly mentions her struggle with autoimmune disease,  and before you know it, you’re choking out something like, “It’s so frustrating because I like to be a positive fun person, but right now, I don’t feel like that person.”

Then, a couple hours later, in a session with your therapist, you hear yourself recounting the most mortifying moments of your week when your child brought her friend to your house ahead of schedule to ‘surprise you’ and you made them leave so that you could finish cleaning and you weren’t joking. When the therapist says, “so we’re going to work on your need to be in control and your ability to be kind to yourself,” you sit in stunned amazement that 1) you actually confessed the story out loud and, 2) she gets you and this is only the second time you’ve spoken to her.

You leave your session, drive through Starbucks to buy a tall lemonade before picking up your four-year-old great nephew and taking him home for dinner.  After dinner you chat about serious things like whether or not a four-year-old can actually run faster than a race car, then hear your nephew, the four-year-old’s daddy, say “you are such a blessing to us” as he walks you to your car.

You drive home, wiping tears off your cheeks because you are overwhelmed at the richness of the day, walk into your house, plop down on a chair next to your husband, and try to give him some snippets that can somehow convey the way God spoke to you all day long, but you are so exhausted from the last twenty-four hours that you can barely make coherent sentences.

After a total knock-out sleep, you wake up and eat a bowl of oatmeal on the way to your physical therapy appointment. Then, the angel who is your therapist places her hands directly on the exact spots that have been screaming for attention.  She just barely touches you, but the warmth and intention radiating from her hands moves from your skin through your joints and directly into your heart.

It’s several hours later, after you have baked banana bread, prepared chicken curry, drank tea with a friend, choked up at the opening chapel service on your school’s campus, talked with three out of four of your children, made major financial decisions with your husband, cried over a minor miracle, started crocheting a new afghan, and laughed at the Weekend Update, when you realize that for the last two days God has been placing His hands directly on the exact spots that have been screaming for attention.  He has just barely touched them, but the warmth and intention radiating from His hands has moved directly into your heart.

That’s what happens when you sit down, shut up, and pay attention.

I think I might try sitting with this a little longer.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Matthew 5:4

*Ann Voskamp, The Broken Way.

** Jen Hatmaker’s For the Love, “Episode 2: Brenae Brown”

Sitting with it, Re-visit

~ Kristin ~ 9 Comments
Click here for audio, or read on.

This week and last, I have shared posts that tell the story of my journey with autoimmunity. I have said in my posts that I am thankful for this journey. This post gets at the heart of why. Written in August of 2017, it conveys a critical part in my healing — the time I have spent sitting and considering the previous chapter of my life. Everyone doesn’t benefit from illness, but my physical illness has made way for a much deeper healing.

I literally have to sit here with it.

I would rather run, but I don’t have that option any more. I have to sit with it.

In my soldiering years, I was continually in motion. Dawn ’til dark. I was picking up, dropping off, buying, cooking, cleaning, planning, teaching, grading, and when I could squeeze it in, I was literally running. Though I was acutely aware that I had four other humans living in the house with me (who else was I picking up, dropping off, buying, cooking, and cleaning for?), I rarely sat still very long to actually look at them, listen to them, watch them, hear them.

I have to sit with that now. I’d much rather be running.

When one got migraines, went off to school, and then developed an eating disorder, I didn’t stop what I was doing. No. I drove to emergency rooms, packed boxes, drove miles, dropped off, made appointments, picked up, and kept moving.

When another joined the military and started jumping out of planes, I didn’t sit down and think about what that meant. No. I bought supplies, cooked farewell dinners, drove to a bus, dropped off, and kept moving. I can’t even remember if I wrote letters.

When another was brutally assaulted, I was so busy moving I didn’t even realize it had happened. For almost two years. And when I finally found out, still, I didn’t stop what I was doing, sit down, and grieve. No. I grabbed broken pieces, dropped them in the passenger seat of the car, and drove them to someone who I thought could put them back together again. And I kept on moving.

I have to sit with that now.

I didn’t choose this.

No. Even when disease started crawling into my joints, I tried to keep moving. I trudged through long days trying to manage responsibilities and ended up collapsing at home at the end of each day. All my good hours were spent in hot pursuit while my hours at home, with the ones who needed me most, were spent in a daze of pain and fatigue.

It’s been over three years since I admitted the need for change. In those three years I have tried again and again to return to my former ways, but I can not. This disease is literally slowing me, sitting me down, and forcing me to face the things that I have not wanted to face. It’s forcing me to learn new ways. And, still, I resist.

I try, futilely, to keep busy. I have crocheted a hundred scarves, hats, afghans. I have put together a million puzzle pieces. I have read thousands of pages of print.

But, without fail, fatigue comes, and I must stop the busy-ness and turn to stillness. And even when I am exhausted, as I am right now, it’s as though I fight against rest.

The past several nights I have limped to my room lugging heated packs that I drape on my neck, hips, back after I’ve awkwardly lowered myself into bed. Then begins the battle of shifting and moaning and repositioning that sometimes lasts several minutes but tonight lasted much longer, and I couldn’t turn off the images that kept playing out over and over on the HD screen that is my imagination. Finally I groaned myself out of bed.

Come on, Kristin. Sit with it. Admit that you missed so much. Acknowledge that the ones you love have hurts that you haven’t wanted to see. Grieve that. Cry.

Acknowledge that you couldn’t do it all. You couldn’t soothe all the hurts. You sometimes didn’t even try.

And the hurts keep coming. The car needs servicing. The dog is aging and ill. A laptop isn’t working. Can’t a girl get relief from some of this pain?

And then comes the realization that the physical pain is a symbol. A tool.

 A gift.

Man, I hate to admit that it’s a gift, but without it, I would still be running. I would still be accumulating regret.

The illness hasn’t solved my problems, but it has allowed me to see them.

And as I see them, I am finally taking the time to sit with them and cry. The tears keep coming as though they just have been waiting for the opportunity.

I’m trying, really trying, to sit with that. I believe the healing will come in the grieving. So, I’m going to take some time to grieve. Soldiering me wants to schedule the grieving for Mondays at 10am for the next three weeks and be done with it. 

Sitting still me isn’t in a rush.

I’m learning to sit with that, too.

There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul.

Writing Trouble

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Since I wrote Sunday’s blog post about my recent experiences taking Cosentyx, I’ve heard remorse humming through my being.  I mean, why do I always have to go ahead and say it all?  Why can’t I stop saying EVERYTHING.

A few weeks ago we were at a family reunion and one of my nephews sat down next to me with his son and a paper plate covered in various colored cubes of finger jello. Because I love his son, and him, I said, “Mmmmm, jello!”

My nephew, who with his son was consuming bite after bite of the jiggly treat, said to me, “Yes, but you don’t like jello, do you, Aunt Kristin?”

“No, I am not a fan.” I answered truthfully, as I seem always compelled to do.

My nephew grinned as he recalled a time, some years ago, when he said I had gone off on a ‘rant’ about how jello has “no nutritional value whatsoever.”  As he said it, I could hear myself on just one of my many diatribes.  He, and another of my nephews, also now a father, watched me for a reaction. When I said, “Man, sometimes I wish I could just shut my mouth,” they both laughed out loud.

I am that aunt.  Ok, let’s get real. I am that human.

I am compelled — yes, driven — to fill in the empty spaces with (so many) words.  And, guys, it can be embarrassing.

How many times riding home from an event with my husband have I said, “did I talk too much? did I say anything offensive or that I need to apologize for?”   In recent years, my husband has answered with a kindness, “Kristin, just be you.”

I, in case you don’t know me, am a person for whom no number of words, it seems, is ever too many words. I love to read them, listen to them, write them, and speak them. This week, the first in my self-imposed month-long preparation for fall classes, I have read literally thousands of words every day.  I have jotted notes to myself on stickies. I have listened to podcasts. I have had multiple conversations,  both virtual and in person, about language and pedagogy.  I’ve asked questions, made lists, and edited syllabi. At the end of these long text-filled days,  you would think I would be ready for a break.  Nope.  This word-nerd then watches Wheel-of-Fortune and Jeopardy, plays Words with Friends, and then reads for pleasure for an hour or two before sleeping.

I guess the fact that I love words and language so much is a blessing since I have made the teaching of English, especially writing, my career. However, sometimes my compulsion to put so many words — particularly those that expose my struggles — on public display, causes me to feel anxious, regretful, and downright insecure.  Why can’t I be one of those people that moves through social situations with a calm reserve?  Why can’t I listen to the conversations of others replying simply, “Oh, that’s interesting.”

More to the point of this blog, why can’t I stick to topics that are uplifting, that celebrate God’s faithfulness, that don’t expose my struggle, my weakness, my — gasp — troubles? This mantra, this hum, has been trying to distract me all week.

“Write a follow-up. Write a retraction. Go back and edit.”

Be quiet, I say. Can’t you see I’m trying to plan my courses?  Can’t you see I’m trying to focus on best practices for teaching others how to write? 

“Yeah, why don’t you go ahead and teach them since you’re so good at it?” the snide voice replies.

Hush. 

And then, this morning in the middle of a text on writing theory, I saw this:

“Trouble is the engine of the narrative.”*

I stopped in my tracks.  Wait, who said that?  Jerome Bruner, noted educational psychologist, and apparently also, for me, a voice calling out in the wilderness of text.

“The trouble is a violation of the legitimate, the expectable, the appropriate.  and the outcome of the story depends upon seeing legitimacy maintained, restored, or redefined.” *

Suddenly, in the middle of my study and preparation, I felt like I was in church.  Indeed, all of life is a grappling with the “violation of the legitimate” and the longing to see “legitimacy restored or redefined.”

The legitimate, expectable, and appropriate of my life — and surely yours — has been violated time and again — sometimes by circumstance, sometimes by others, often by my own doing.   My story includes troubles such as divorce, eating disorder, chronic illness, and myriad poor choices and betrayals.  Yours might include any of a variety of other troubles.  Together, we are all walking through troubles of many kinds, and as Ann Vosskamp says,

“More than anything, [we] don’t want to feel all alone in [our] unspoken broken.”**

And that, I have to confess, is what compels my incessant need to share.  I hate to admit that this self-proclaimed soldier longs to feel connection with others who are also struggling — who also have troubles.  But I do.  I long for it.  And I do experience it.

Sometimes I am able to find that connection over a cup of tea with a girlfriend.  We share our troubles and our victories.  We are honest, and in that honesty, we find community, support, connection. Other times, I need the luxury of words in print — the time that it takes me to type each letter, think through each sentence, and delete two or three false starts.  I need to process the trouble through text; that’s just who I am.

Its an unexpected bonus that sometimes my need to type out my troubles results in a forged bond with someone with whom my words resonated — a person who also, more than anything, doesn’t want to feel alone.

We are not alone. We are all broken.  We are all longing for restoration, and when we see it, we celebrate it. As we wait for it, if we are willing to expose our wounds, our brokenness, we are often surprised by the blessing of connection with other wounded broken souls.

Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.

Galatians 6:2

*as cited in Graham,  Steve, Charles A. Mac Arthur, and Jill Fitzgerald. Best Practices in Writing Instruction. The Guilford Press, 2013.

**Vosskamp, Ann. The Broken Way. Zondervan, 2016.

 

Trials

~ Kristin ~ 4 Comments

One month without writing. I had every intention of jumping back into routines.  Fresh from my time away at the beginning of the summer, I wrote three days in a row, and then the whirlwind — the 5-week summer course I taught, visits from all of our kids and our grandbaby, and a full-family excursion to see both sides of the family.  I might’ve still managed to write a little, but in the midst of all that activity, I did a new medication trial.

My new rheumatologist, who thankfully reasserted my psoriatic arthritis diagnosis, said I should try Cosentyx.  “It’s a relatively new drug,” she said, “and it has helped a lot of people with psoriatic arthritis.”

“What’s the down side?” I asked.

“Nothing!” she assured me.

Skeptical, I did my own research. I googled and queried online groups.  It seemed that everyone agreed with my doctor — the risks and side effects were minimal.

Mm-hmm.

I wish I would’ve gotten a rash. Or stomach pain.  I did get what other patients call, “a temporary spike in symptoms,” but I also had another, more bizarre reaction.

Cosentyx is injectable.  Once a week for five weeks, you use a syringe or a ‘pen’ to give yourself a 150mg dose of this drug. I’m nothing if not dutiful, so I started the day I got home from grading the AP exam.  One quick click in the right thigh.  I didn’t notice anything until the next day when around 4pm I felt like I needed to lie down and be done for the day.  I wasn’t too worried;  I am often tired.  It is not unusual for me to be in my pajamas by 7pm, so I did what my body told me and rested for the next couple of days. Then I was back to normal.

The next Sunday, I did one quick click in the left thigh.  Again, nothing immediate, but the next morning, I got out of bed barking orders, complaining, and overreacting to every little nothing.  Ok, still, I wasn’t too concerned.  I’m known to be a bit crabby, and this ‘mood’, like others I’ve had in the past, lasted about 48 hours and then seemed to wane.

Next Sunday, next click — this time in the belly.  It was the Fourth of July weekend. And I was starting to see a pattern.  I had to teach on Monday, July 3rd for the summer program I was part of.  I got up and grumbled around the house, complaining that I was the only one who had to work, the only one who cleaned up around the house, blah, blah, blah.  My family observed me from afar.  They were starting to catch on, too.  I barely made it through my class.  I was not interested in being there, neither were my students.  I went home and barked at my family and put myself to bed early.  The next day, some friends invited us over to their pool.  I agreed to go for the sake of my family.  I figured I would be less aggressive if I was in front of witnesses. And, these were close friends who were aware of my health issues and also aware of the new drug.  They were champs. They distracted me and fed me and my family.  True heroes.

Next Sunday, next click — the other side of the belly. Again, Sunday night was fine, but Monday morning I was already in a funk when my husband called me from his annual physical to tell me that he had to go to the ER for an EKG.  I rallied the troops — I sent my kids to him while I readied myself to teach and pushed pause on my emotions.  I transitioned to full soldier mode when he called again and said he had to have a heart catheterization right away.  The next twenty-four hours, which had been the hardest on this med in the previous weeks, were a whirlwind of distraction.  My husband’s tests eliminated heart disease and any blockages and suggested the need for my husband to go on — wait for it — a medication trial.  (He has had not further symptoms, thankfully.) By the time he was home from the hospital, it was Tuesday night and I was almost back to normal.

Next Sunday, next click — back to the thigh, but this time, we had a house full of visiting family.  I had no issues on Sunday night.  Maybe I would be ok.  After all, during the previous week with the medical distraction, I had kept my rage in check.  Certainly I would be able to control my tongue in front of house guests.  Nevertheless I warned them in advance while hoping for the best.

It came out of nowhere.  Unbridled venom.  I spewed.  Then the backlash of remorse and embarrassment.  Apologies, and then, wham! The second wave.  I felt desperate.  I mumbled explanations and left the house.  I was going to isolate myself until the storm passed.  I spent the next six hours alone.  I had a book, but I couldn’t read.  I had my laptop, but I couldn’t write.  My mind was swirling frantically.  I worried over every decision past, present, future.  I cried.  I raged.  I fumed.  It was terrible.  After dark, I slithered back home, showered, and put myself to bed.

The next morning, we attended a funeral for a friend where tears released any remaining emotions, then I taught my class.  Afterward, I made a meal, and by dinner time I was able to join the family around the table.  I was still careful to speak very few words for fear of saying something barbed or pointed.

By the next day, Wednesday, I was pretty much back to normal.

I am now two weeks away from the last dose.  And two weeks away from the next dose. After the five loading doses, I switch to once-a-month injections.  I’ve called my doctor. She’s “never heard of” this type of reaction.  I contacted the manufacturer.  They are “following” my case.  My doctor wants me to continue the course, if I can, to see if Cosentyx will eventually help me.

That’s the other kicker.  This med does not give immediate relief from pain, fatigue, or psoriasis.  People have varied results.  Some have noticed improvement after the loading doses.  Some after the third month.  Some after the — gulp — eighth month.

Is it worth it?  I don’t know, because right now I don’t have any relief.  None.  I had, as I mentioned, a spike in my psoriasis, pain, and fatigue. That, coupled with the bizarre emotional reaction, is what I have noticed as a result of this medication.

Nevertheless, I am going to press on.  I am going to take the next dose and not plan anything for the two days after the injection.  We are going to watch and wait.

Why? Because I am still hopeful that something is going to work.  I still believe that at fifty-one years of age I should be able to live a full life.  I still want to teach during the day and go out to dinner with friends in the evening.  I want to be able to have Bible study with the girls in the morning, teach my classes, and then be conscious for dinner with my husband.  I am hopeful that I will be able to lie down at night and sleep without groaning every time I have to reposition myself.

It feels a bit selfish when I put it like that, I guess.  I mean, psoriatic arthritis is not life-threatening.  It is only life-altering.  And, as I have mentioned in this blog, my life did need altering.  I am not angry that I have this disease, but I do want to pursue a path to healing. And, I think, for me, the healing may need to come slowly so that I don’t abandon all the lessons I have learned in this chapter.

 

 

Romans 12:12

Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.

Controlling and Carrying, revisit

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

This post, first written in June of 2017 and polished a bit in March 2019, reminds me of one of the most powerful life lessons I continue to learn.

I began trying to control my life at a very early age. At the risk of making this a confessional, let me just say that I routinely lied, falsely (and sometimes accurately) implicated my brothers, and physically overpowered my friends to get what I wanted. And that was all by the time I was in elementary school! As I grew older and learned what was socially acceptable, I found other methods such as emotional outbursts, dramatic power plays, and sly slips of the hand to orchestrate my life. My college years brought more maturity.  I learned that I could not control my environment, my peers, or my family, so I controlled my body through anorexia.

You would think that therapy and recovery would’ve exposed the truth that I am not in charge of my own life either, but I am either a slow learner or a control savant. I have devised many ways to create an illusion of control.  In fact, once I had children of my own, I was sure to create a rigid daily schedule to ensure that their lives were under control. I was going to make sure that they were safe and secure. No harm would come to them under my watch. We prayed together. We memorized scripture verses. I only let them watch PBS.  We ate dinner together every evening. They went to church every Sunday and often several times during the week. I was going to do this parenting thing right. My kids would be perfect, you know?

I couldn’t control everything, though, as I’m sure you can imagine. They didn’t stay safe and secure. Harm did come to them. Heart-breaking harm.

Many sleepless nights I have cried over my failed attempts at controlling my life; many more I have cried over my realization that I could not prevent my children from being hurt. And where has it led me?  Literally to my knees.

For many years now, when I have found myself facing the stark realization of my own powerlessness in the lives of my children, I call to mind an image that gives me great peace. I picture a cupped hand with my child nestled safely inside. I imagine that cupped hand held close to an all-powerful chest much like I might hold a newborn chick or kitten. The hand is strong and able to lift my child out of harm’s way, and sometimes, when harm determinedly finds its way inside of that hand, two compassionate eyes are bearing witness — they are seeing and knowing and caring in ways that I am unable to see, to know, to care.  This image of the One who does have control gives me peace in those moments when I am able to acknowledge that I have none

Photo of original artwork by Mike Lorenz, St. Louis, MO.

But there are many moments when I am not able to acknowledge that. Most of the moments, actually. Most of my moments I am filling with doing. Doing gives me an illusion of control. It calms my anxiety. It makes me feel like everything is going to be ok if I just get my house clean, if I just meet one more student, if I complete one more task.

But that is a lie. Everything is not going to be ok. 

Last night, when I finally admitted that I had done enough for the day and I finally lay down in my bed, I picked up Ann Voskamp’s The Broken Way.  This is what I read:

Suffering asks us to bear under that which is ultimately not under our control, which proves to us we have no control.  And maybe that’s too much for us in our autonomous, do-it-yourself culture to bear.  Maybe more than we can’t stand physical suffering, we can’t stand not feeling in control (171). 

It’s silly when she puts it like that, isn’t it? And if I admit that trying to be in control is silly, then I have to admit that much of my life has been one big futile exercise. That’s embarrassing. And humiliating. And heartbreaking.

But it’s true.

However, it is also true that regardless of my foolish attempts, I, too, have been sitting in that all-powerful hand. I have been kept out of harm’s way many, many times. And, when harm has found me, One has born witness with compassion, forgiveness, and love. I am His child, after all. He has ordered my world.  He has hemmed me in on all sides. And He will continue to carry me.

You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me.

Psalm 139:5

Sorbet before Lunch, revisit

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

This post, written in June of 2017, is being edited in June 2019, on the heels of a week away with my husband, as I sit in a hotel room I’m sharing with the roomie I met two years ago. This is a pattern I’ve enjoyed repeating.

So much is jangling around inside my head this morning. Over three weeks ago my husband and I left on a two-week vacation — we slipped away to an undisclosed location where no one recognizes us so we could begin to recognize one another again. We spent hours together, just the two of us. It was quiet; it was restful; it was lovely. At the end of the two weeks, I jetted off, instead of coming straight home, to a week of AP English Literature Exam scoring with hundreds of strangers. Inside of those three weeks, I read a couple of books and several articles, I listened to podcasts, I watched meaningless television, I had long, and short, conversations in person and over the phone, and I read thousands of words written by high school students.

Now I’m home.

I’m back at my desk in my little house by the river.  My dog is under my desk at my feet. I’m halfway through the first cup of tea, and I am trying to get the jangling to coalesce into some kind of meaning.

What do you learn from three weeks outside of your routine? If you sort all the pieces into piles, what do you have?

First, I have the realization that the things that I planned — the ones that we just had to do — weren’t the ones that I valued the most. In fact, the sandwich that I just had to eat from that particular restaurant did taste delicious, but its gluten- and dairy-rich delicious-ness left me feeling miserable for the next twenty-four hours. The things that I thought would make the experience ‘perfect’ weren’t really the highlights. No, the unexpecteds, the ad libs, were the nuggets I will cherish — a last minute detour, a lunch time phone call, impromptu sorbet right before lunch.

This plan-happy girl needs to be reminded from time to time that her plans aren’t always the best and that she can’t plan for everything. In fact, often the best parts of life are the ones I didn’t, or couldn’t anticipate.

In the weeks leading up to the AP Reading, I was feeling a bit apprehensive because I had been assigned a random hotel roommate. Although, you might not expect it, I tend a little to introversion. While my career has involved standing up in front of students, cracking jokes and calling out bad behavior, I truly love my end-of-day quiet alone time. What if my roommate loved to chat until all hours of the night? What if she was a slob? What if her personality got on my nerves. It’s not like we would just have to get through a weekend. We would be co-existing for eight days!! I had a plan, though — if she was super creepy, I told myself, I would request a single room and just pay the difference. Phew! Glad I solved that dilemma.

I arrived at the hotel before she did and quelled my anxiety by staying busy. I situated my stuff, got myself registered, went for a swim, showered, and then waited. She arrived on a different schedule, so we didn’t actually meet until almost 8pm on the first day! After so much fretting, all worry evaporated when she arrived, Southern twanging her greeting —  a virtual “Hi honey, I ho-ome!” — and putting me at ease.

Not for one minute did I feel that awkward let-me-ask-questions-to-get-to-know-you feeling. From the start we chatted like old friends, laughing over ridiculousness and tearfully sharing our hearts. We were ok being quiet together, too. I didn’t feel like I was imposing when I felt poorly and had to cash-in early. I didn’t feel like I had to explain myself or justify my actions. I felt like I was living with a sister. Probably my favorite moment of the week was the last night when our conversation went something like this:

“Hey, thanks for not being a creepy roommate.”

“Hey, thanks for not snoring.”

“And thanks for not being a slob or watching tv until 4 in the morning.”

“And thanks for not judging me for going to bed before 9.”

I couldn’t have hand-picked a better roommate.

So what’s the take-away here? Do I suddenly turn from my planner-ly ways and go forth in a life of abandon? (She says as she glances over at the to-do list she made for today and the one she made for this week.) Every teacher-fiber of my being loves to plan. In fact, two items on my to-do list involve planning — for the summer class that starts next week and for the new course I’m teaching in the fall.

Writing lists and anticipating alternatives is in my DNA. I won’t ever not be a planner, but is there a way for me to plan for spontaneity? for margin that allows for ad lib? Of course!

Something about filling my days with plans reduces my anxiety.  If I fill in all the spaces, I leave no room for the big scary unknown, but, also, if I fill in all the spaces, I leave no room for surprise, for serendipity, for spontaneity.

Leaving space is taking a risk.

Do I dare? Do I dare let myself sit quietly in the chair on my patio, watching nothing, anticipating nothing, expecting nothing? Do I dare have a day that’s not planned wall-to-wall with activity? What could happen?

I might take a last-minute detour.  I might make a new friend. I might eat sorbet before lunch.

I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope.”

Psalm 130:5

Putting it in Practice, revisit

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

Editors Note: This is a re-post. As part of my TBT series, I am following each Monday post with a Thursday re-post. This post, first written in May of 2017, looks at the same concept of “practicing” disciplines that I explored earlier this week. 

I’m beginning to think that lessons are never fully learned, or as we say in the field, mastered, but rather that our lessons require continuing practice.

A child sits at a piano slowly fingering the do, re, mi, fa, so of a C-major scale.  Over and over she plays, repeatedly faltering at one particularly tough spot where the thumb has to cross under two fingers in order to hit all eight notes in the octave. Sure, sure, after hours upon hours of practice, the scale becomes easier, the rhythm more consistent and measured, but let that pianist take a month away from the keys, and almost assuredly, the stumbling will return. Learning is only safe with continual practice.

I’ve been blogging at this space for almost three years and I keep coming back to the same lessons — the ones that I need to rehearse over and over and over.  Perhaps the one that needs the most practice, the one for which my Instructor has utilized multi-modal approaches, is this idea that I can breathe — I can slow down — I can rest — I can be still.

One problem I encounter in learning this lesson is the muscle memory of having practiced a different way for years. The old way was a rushing, plate-spinning frenzy of activity — checking items off lists and powering through. I’ve often described this practice as soldiering — task-driven, focused doing with minimal regard for relationship or self-care. I didn’t reflect or take time to decompress; I went on to the next mission as though my life depended on it. Ultimately, I was given a medical discharge — diagnosis? chronic battle-fatigue.

So, per orders, I’ve been undergoing job retraining for almost three solid years. It’s been cyclical. I rest and recover, then, feeling restless, I get busy. I try for moderation, but since my historical practice has been frenetic, I usually return to that pre-set. I end up sick, of course, so I back off and review the lesson — I can breathe — I can slow down — I can rest — I can be still.

The layers of instruction involved in my practice of this lesson are many. First, and most obvious, is the actual physical slowing of my body. I feel as though my major joints of propulsion — my hips, shoulders, feet — have been coated in a rigid rubber-like compound that limits movement. The compound has, it seems, been grafted into my bones in such a fashion that if I do find a way to make the rubber pliable enough to allow movement that is too fast, too insistent, or too prolonged, the grafting sights become irritated and inflamed like a newly healing surgical site. The pain slows me and reminds me that I can breathe — I can slow down — I can rest — I can be still.

The second layer of instruction comes through my practice of yoga. Within the confines of a very small space — 24″ x 68″ — I focus on breathing, being very intentional about every move I make. Rushing is not allowed.  Multi-tasking is impossible. It takes all of my attention to hold warrior two — right knee at a forty-five degree angle, right heel in line with the arch of my left foot, arms extended as though drawing an arrow across a bow, gaze looking across the middle finger of my extended hand. Once there, I breathe; I rest; I am still.  This practice, which was absolutely foreign to me in my former life, makes me feel stronger than any butt-kicking and name-taking ever could. Yet, in this strength, I am not calling the shots; I am trusting the voice of the instructor and moving only where she tells me to move. She assures me that I can do this — I can live this way even when I step off the mat.

A third layer of instruction is my reading list, which comes from a variety of sources: one book from a member of my breakfast club Bible study, another from my child as a Mother’s Day gift, one more from a summer reading list for some of my students, and daily readings from my YouVersion Bible reading plan. Despite the varied sources, the message is resoundingly the same — I can breathe — I can slow down — I can rest — I can be still.

Last week I saw my rheumatologist who is offering a trial of the medication Cosentyx. I find myself hoping this drug will break up the rubberized coating, free my joints, increase my energy, and allow me to do a little more.

I was sitting with my breakfast club friends the other day, sharing this news about the potential drug trial, when one of them asked, “Kristin, how would you like us to pray?” Surprising frustration rose in me; I think because I realized that what I was hoping for is in direct opposition to what I have been trying to learn. I snarled, “I don’t even know, because if this drug works, I know that I will go right back to doing too much. I’m practically doing too much already, and I’m in the middle of a flare!” My poor friend, she hasn’t known me too long and probably isn’t accustomed to my surliness. She said, “Do you guys need the money that badly?”  I reflexively burst out, “Not at all!  I mean, sure, we could use more money, but that is not how we live our lives. We don’t make decisions based solely on money.” I was stunned at my clarity and embarrassed by my tone.

I am the most reluctant of learners — the little girl who needs to be nudged back to the piano bench, a finger poking her between the shoulder blades. Why do I have to practice, I whine. I understand all the notes in the scale;  I know where my fingers belong! However, if I ever want to get past these darn scales and on to playing some real music — enjoying the freedom and bliss of playing outside of the practice — then I have got to stick to the practice.  I have got to keep rehearsing the truth that I can breathe — I can slow down — I can rest — I can be still.

Why? Because I can trust the voice of my Instructor. I can stay in a limited space, listen to His voice, and believe what He believes about me — that I can do this; I can live this much richer connected way. I want to learn this lesson so well, that even if this medication works, even if I am free of pain, and even if I regain my energy, I won’t go back to my soldiering life, but I will live in the freedom that I have been given to breathe, to slow down, to rest, and to be still.

PS. The Cosentyx did not work. In fact, it made me more restless and agitated and didn’t decrease my pain or increase my mobility. A year and a half later, I am not taking any pharmaceuticals for my chronic pain and fatigue. For me, it has been best to adjust my lifestyle — to keep returning to the practice of breathing, slowing, resting, and being still.

Be still and now that I am God

Psalm 46:10

Glimmers of Brilliance

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

For the past month or so I have been consuming print as though my life depended on it.  This happens at the end of a semester for all instructors, but particularly for those who teach English, and even more so for those who teach writing.

A couple weeks ago, I stood in the doorway of the office of a seasoned English professor with another colleague.  All of us were bleary-eyed from days and days of reading stacks and stacks of papers.  We were grumbling, of course, because our charges hadn’t heeded every single word that we had breathed over the course of the semester. The nerve!  Hadn’t we told them how to frame a thesis? Hadn’t we told taught them about depth that goes beyond surface observations?  Hadn’t we expected them to sustain an argument? And what had we received for all our labors — a few glimmers of brilliance in a sea of mediocrity.

And isn’t that our life, a few glimmers of brilliance in a sea of mediocrity.

After long days with students, I come home at night and read more.  Recently, I’ve been reading Ann Voskamp and Shauna Niequist. They write in ways that I imagine I might one day write if I keep at it.  They pour their truth onto the page as I do, but they make it so,…so beautiful.  I often have to pause and take a photo of a line or a paragraph because I am so captured by the words themselves — how they are arranged on the page — and also by the image that they conjure in my mind — what they arrange in my head. For Mother’s Day, one of my children sent me a book of essays by David Sedaris — a pioneer in this way of writing that I find myself compelled to follow.  His Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim is, in the first few chapters I’ve read, like a home movie that has been painstakingly crafted into vignettes that illustrate the truths that his childhood taught him. And that’s really all I am trying to do here.

My writing is all about finding the glimmers.

I sit down in the morning and I take a look at the film I have captured since the last time I wrote — that image of me standing in the doorway with the two professors, a still of me bent over a stack of papers at my desk, a clip of me in the front of a small lecture hall demonstrating how to integrate a source into a line of text, and a close-up of me lying in bed at night using my phone to snap a photo of a paragraph.  I move these images around on the desktop of my mind in an effort to find some little glimmer of meaning. Why, I ask myself, do I spend so much time with words?

Guys, I spend so. much. time. with words!  I mean, it’s 9:30am and I have already read posts on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.  I’ve played several rounds of Words With Friends.  I’ve given feedback on two essays.  I’ve texted two daughters. And, now, I’m writing.  In a couple of hours I will be in my car listening to a podcast or two, then later today, I will tutor a student in English grammar and writing to help her prepare for the ACT.  After all that, I will curl up in bed and read some more.

Why? Why do I spend so much time with words? Well, of course I have more than one reason.  I love the way words fit together like miniature puzzles; when each piece is put just where it belongs,  an image appears out of nowhere!

eaigm becomes image!

I love that!

I love the way words can be arranged and rearranged in sentences to alter their meaning.

Kids love moms. Moms love kids. Kids moms love.

Isn’t that fun!?

But mostly, I love the way that words manipulate the brain.  Even as I write this, the clips of film are rearranging on my desktop.  I am seeing how the reading I do at night informs what I say to my students in the front of my class. What I say in the front of my class impacts (even if I don’t always see evidence of it) the writing of my students.  The writing of my students inspires my conversations with my colleagues.  The conversations with my colleagues motivate my desire to read and write more.

And the realization that each aspect of my life is somehow connected to every other aspect of my life reminds me to be present in each moment, to keep my camera rolling, to record what I see so that I can later review the tape and see the connections, to not wish any moment away, but to look for the glimmers of brilliance in every great sea of mediocrity.

And that, my friends, is why I spend so much time with words.

Isaiah 45:3

I will give you hidden treasures,
    riches stored in secret places,
so that you may know that I am the Lord,
    the God of Israel, who summons you by name.

 

 

 

 

Mutual Friendship, revisit

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

This post, written in April 2017 and dragged back out in July 2019, was written before my current friendships really had a chance to show their strength. They’ve now proven themselves even stronger than I thought. I hope to one day reciprocate the kind of love and support I have received from my friends.

I have underestimated the power of friendship. If I sit and think about all the people I have loved or been loved by over the years, I have to admit that I have taken my friendships for granted. I have had the kind of friends who drive hours just to meet me for lunch. I have had the kind of friends who drop what they are doing to stay with my kids for the weekend. I have had the kind of friends who, after having not heard from me for months, will pick up the phone and continue a conversation as though it was started five minutes ago. But I’ve not always been that kind of friend.

Rather, I’ve sometimes been the friend who screens calls, is too busy to grab coffee, and who leaves church during the last song just so I can avoid talking after the service. Sigh. I can call it introversion if I want, but really, I’m just not always a great friend.

So, before I get bogged down in guilt and regret, let me share with you what I’ve learned recently from some of my friends.

I meet with a group of gals one morning every other week. We call ourselves The Breakfast Club. We are reading through a book together. We gather to share insights, to pray, to eat, and to encourage one another. Last week, I was headed to this group with an overwhelming emotional burden. I knew we were supposed to discuss chapter 4 of our book, but I didn’t even take the book with me. Instead, I hijacked the study, shared my burden, and asked the others to just sit with me in my grief. They sandwiched me between them on the couch, heard the story, and wept with me.

Over the weekend, I gathered with 120 other pastors’ wives from across the state of Michigan. Most of us only see each other once a year, but this sisterhood is strong. We come from diverse backgrounds, we are in different stages of life, and we have a variety of experiences, but for one weekend a year we laugh together, eat together, sing together, and study together. In the midst of that community experience, sisters share stories. They bear one another’s burdens. They encourage one another.

Yesterday, on the fourteenth day of an autoimmune flare, feeling the need for some support from others who could relate, I posted on a Facebook group for those who suffer like me. I asked a question. Just one question. Within moments the responses started. In the last twenty-four hours, twelve women have responded with information, encouragement, and shared experiences. Several of these women have been continuing the conversation with me.  I picture us all in our beds or on our couches, feet propped, joints iced or heated, phones in hand, gathering strength from one another. I’m in Michigan, another is in New Jersey; one is in Australia, another is in the state of Washington. We are different ages and surely have different personalities, political bents, and religious beliefs. We have never met or heard of each other before yesterday, but we are buoyed by one another.

When I was in college, I took a couple of semesters of sign language, and still, a hundred years later, some of the signs stick in my head. One, in particular, is the sign for ‘friend’. Like other signs, the sign for ‘friend’ requires movement. One index finger is hooked over the other —  a weight, depending on the other finger to hold it. The fingers then change places. Each finger takes a turn bearing the weight of the other. I need this visual from time to time.

Too often I am willing to be the top finger, the one that depends on the other to hold me up. Or, I clench my fingers into a fist, determining that I will rely on no one, thank you very much.

I forget the beauty in the mutuality of friendship.

Yesterday, I opened the mail to find a thank you note from one of my breakfast club friends. She thanked me for sharing my burden last week. She said, “thank you for inviting us to cry with you.” I was overwhelmed by her thoughtfulness. Instead of allowing me to feel like I had used the group for my benefit, she implied that my request for support had been a blessing.

That’s how friendship works, isn’t it? We, sometimes without even knowing it, support and are supported by one another. And, in this mutuality, we are encouraged. We are reminded that we are not alone.

It takes some risk to invite someone into your life, to allow them to see your vulnerability, your cares, your weakness. But be encouraged; in the sharing, in the asking, you are inviting a response — a response that builds a bond of friendship.  And let’s be honest, life is much better because of our friends.

Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

Galatians 6:2