The Truck

This past Friday morning, I dropped off my Ford Explorer at the repair shop with my guys Dale and Randy, for an overdue oil change and to check out a noise in the back I couldn't identify. That afternoon, I got a call from Dale. He wanted to tell me that they had opted not to do the oil change...because the noise in the back, once identified, was indicative of problems so expensive to repair that they totaled much more than the cost of the vehicle. "We thought maybe you wouldn't want to put any money into it," he said, "if, ah...you're going to look for a different vehicle." Then there was silence on the line.

"Dale," I said calmly, "I'm just going to call you back."

The Truck came into my life at a pivotal moment. I'd been working two part-time (read: not part-time) jobs, struggling to stay afloat in the turbulent wake of a divorce, holding up myself, my household, and my little family, as we navigated all the heartbreak, trauma, and logistics of the ending of a past life. We had weathered the worst of the storm, and were beginning to regain some equilibrium. The divorce was no longer a thing that was happening, but was starting to become a thing that had happened. Slowly, we were beginning to see our way through to a new future. We cleaned house, took down pictures, rearranged furniture, bought new lamps. Threw things out. Cried. I got a new, great, full-time job. One week before I started work, through a combination of circumstances and the generosity of a stranger, The Truck came to me unexpectedly, as a gift.

It was a work horse, and it was used to hauling things, and to my surprise, that's how I began to use it immediately. I hadn't even known I needed a truck, but the duties of my new job ended up involving a lot of moving stuff around, and The Truck immediately became my partner in ministry. I could fit almost anything inside--stacks of chairs, bins of school supplies, bag after bag of clothing--you name it, The Truck and I made it happen. And it wasn't just at work. I discovered that everything I had to do was easier with The Truck. Going by myself with the boys to cut our Christmas tree? No problem. The tree fits in The Truck. Hosting a crowd at the house for Friendsgiving, because the boys will be at their dad's for the holiday? Easy. Just haul home all the chairs and tables in The Truck. It never quit, never got tired, and never, never stopped. No matter how long I worked, The Truck worked with me.

We could do anything, The Truck and I. It was rough and tough and not afraid of anything. I hate driving on winter roads, and am always afraid when there's snow and ice, but The Truck had 4-wheel drive. I sometimes worry about hydroplaning, too, when it's raining hard out, but The Truck's tires were extra-grippy for SUV's and were made to handle any terrain. Sometimes, I drove over a median or through the grass, because why not? The Truck was made for off-road--it could handle it. I had to stand up on the running board to get inside, and The Truck and I were big, strong, and invincible.

Most of all, from the very beginning, The Truck was mine. It wasn't chosen with or by anyone else, it wasn't a hand-me-down or a compromise, it was mine, and I made of it what I wanted. I bought accessories to fit it so that I could have the trash can in the back like I always wanted, since the kids are constantly making such a mess back there. (And guys, you can take that trash container out and WASH IT IN THE DISHWASHER.) I stashed blankets, scrapers, umbrellas, jumper cables, first aid kits, all exactly where I wanted them. There was a cassette player, and I pulled out all my favorite tapes from back in the day, and I listened to whatever I wanted, introducing the boys to not only new music, but new technology ("Hey Mom, can we listen to that one song?" "No we can't. Wait until it gets there."), and it was not only mine but it was ours. We listened to books on CD. We all piled in the back together at the drive-in. My oldest drove for the first time ever in The Truck, and passed his driver's test. We became experts at packing the cargo area with all our gear for camping, or vacation. We made new memories, passed new milestones, started new traditions, embarked on a new life, and The Truck took us to those places together.

On Saturday morning, I went to pick up the keys, and make the last trip home. I drove, slowly, seven miles from the shop to my house, and I cried all the way, big, hot tears rolling down my cheeks and splashing in my lap, stopping, as always, to pull myself together just before I reached my destination, and step out ready to face the world again. It wasn't the first time The Truck and I have cried like that, alone together, just the two of us, where no one else can see. But I'm sad it will be the last.

In The Shadow Of The Giving Tree

Lately, I've been doing some difficult thinking about why relationships fail. Now, we all know why some relationships fail. For better or worse, it is simply true that some relationships are ill-advised, ill-executed, and ill-fated from the beginning, for a variety of reasons. But there are others, relationships between people who are seemingly mature, emotionally capable, strong and stable, who have a good foundation and a high capacity for love, and I think we are all more puzzled when these types of relationships don't succeed in the long-term, both for those we know, and even for ourselves. Honestly, some of the divorces I know have shocked me to my core, and none more than my own. And an over-analyzer like me has to stop and wonder--is there a common theme? A reason that is more than just individual circumstance, why so many seemingly solid relationships eventually founder and fall?

Obviously, I don't have the answer. But there is something I've observed that is at least common to many of the relationships that are close to me, and I believe it is relevant to many more. It goes back to something I have spoken and written about many times, both here on this blog and elsewhere, a thought from theologian Henri Nouwen, about how the identity of every human is as the Beloved of God. I've mentioned before that Nouwen even goes so far as to call this the "core truth of our existence".

In his powerful essay "From Solitude to Community to Ministry", Nouwen says that being able to hear the voice that calls us Beloved comes from practicing the discipline of solitude. (If you haven't read this essay, by the way, please do. I don't care who you are, or whether you believe all this God stuff or not, just take a few minutes. I think you need this in your life.) Solitude, Nouwen says, does not equal loneliness; knowing yourself as the Beloved is solitude, holding that knowledge at your core, not needing to have it supplied from an outside source. Holding onto that truth, listening to that voice before all others, is what enables us to enter into community, into relationships with others, without having to expect others to provide this for us. Rather than loneliness grabbing onto loneliness, for those of us who truly know ourselves as the Beloved--in the center of our being, our guts, resounding through our whole being, he says--we can enter a relationship prepared to give without reservation, without expectation, without keeping score. We will be giving out of our overflow. We will be able to forgive others for not loving us perfectly, unconditionally. We will not need them to do this for us, because we are filled up inside, in all the places that matter, with the knowledge that we are God's Beloved daughter or son, that no matter where we have been or what we have done, we remain in His favor.

NOT knowing yourself as the Beloved, however, is a vacuum inside.

In the well-known children's book The Giving Tree, author Shel Silverstein tells us the story of a tree who loves a little boy, and as the Boy grows up through every stage of life, the Tree is there to give whatever the boy needs. The Tree, deeply rooted, drawing its sustenance from deep within, has much to give, and is made happy by loving the Boy, and by seeing him happy. The Boy, however, is always roaming, looking for fulfillment in first one thing and then another--at first finding it in the simple pleasure of being with the Tree, but when this proves inadequate, seeking it in young love, then a house of his own, then a wife and family, and at every turn coming back to the tree in sadness and dissatisfaction, asking always for the next thing he believes will fill the void. In the end, after the Tree has given everything--its leaves, fruit, branches, and even its trunk--and has nothing left to offer, the Boy returns as an old man, looking only for a place to sit and rest, and sits down, satisfied, on the withered stump that remains.

This story is often lauded as an example, a model of selfless giving to be emulated, which I don't believe it to be. Yet even if the ending of this tale was a desirable outcome for both Tree and Boy, in my experience, this cannot be how the story ends in life. Every time, I am surprised that the Boy-turned-man does not douse the stump with gasoline and set it alight, crying out over the crackling flames in his pain and emptiness, "I need wood to make my cane! YOU NEVER LOVED ME!" Because a person who needs a partner to fill them up can never be satisfied; this is not work that can be done from the outside. The Tree will give and give until it is nothing but an old, barren stump, this much is true--but even then, the Boy will never truly feel loved until he knows he is Beloved, and this is not something that can be given to him by another.

So on this the relationship founders, and ultimately falls. One who does not know himself as the Beloved can never forgive our failure to love him perfectly. And there is much--so, so much--to forgive, since none of us, no matter how well-equipped to love, can ever love perfectly. And every one of our many failures to do so is seen by our loved one, that unknowing Beloved, as a rejection, an insult, an abandonment, a wound. Our failure to love him as he deserves is a failure to confirm that he is worthy of love.

As a result, every action of our unknowing Beloved in the relationship can be justified by this, our failure to love adequately. To me, the most poignant and true moment in the Giving Tree story is when the Boy comes to ask of the Tree nothing but wood to make a boat "that will take me away from here", demanding the Tree itself to help him find happiness far away. After all, when we fall short of what is needed, what is left for our loved one to do for their pain but punish us with silence, treat us abusively, seek better comfort in the arms of another lover, a companion, a friend, or a find a new life far away? We were those who were supposed to LOVE them, love them in the way they most deeply needed, that affirmed their worthiness of love and belonging, in the way that made them truly know themselves as Beloved. And we accepted this--this awesome, terrible, impossible responsibility. But there is only One who can call us Beloved, so in doing so, in taking this responsibility that was never ours, we have made a terrible mistake, one with the most serious consequences for both us and the ones we love.

On the front flap of the book cover on my copy of The Giving Tree, the publisher describes the role of the Tree in the story as "a serene acceptance of another's capacity to love in return".  And perhaps this is where the trouble lies. As we enter into relationships with others, do we look for solitude that can join with solitude? Or do we blithely attempt to create in ourselves the solution to another's loneliness? Are we drawing, always, back to the only one who calls us all Beloved, inviting others to join the Beloved community? Or do we rush into the breach, giving, giving, giving, leaving nothing but a withered, barren stump of ourselves, the memory of Beloved community only a wisp of smoke in our wake, serenely accepting our loved ones' inability to give in return, bereft of the knowledge of themselves as Beloved like us? We have contributed to our own downfall--to ours, and to theirs. It's time to stop. For ourselves, and for the ones we love, we must find the strength to swallow our pride, embrace the limits of our purpose, step out of the shadow of the Giving Tree, and into the surrender of community as it's meant to be. Only then, as Nouwen says, can we create space in which God can act and speak; and then, he assures us, something surprising will happen. In our total surrender, he tells us, God will act to make us, not accomplished, but fruitful, as He acts through us to call others back to Himself. And in the end, only that will make our joy complete.

Secrets Nicole Knows

Over the last few days, I've been watching the fascinating documentary on the Simpson-Goldman murder case called "OJ: Made In America". One of the things that makes a good documentary, and this one is no exception, is that it's a deeper exploration of many themes, factors, and issues that have bearing on the particular person or event that's featured as the subject. Documentaries open things up to us in ways we haven't experienced or thought about, never realized, couldn't have understood, without hearing the voices of those who were there, who lived it, who know. Five episodes of this one, each 90 minutes long, are not only about the murders, or even about OJ Simpson himself, but about the elements of inequality and injustice in America, police brutality, race relations, and the role of media in culture, all of which are much larger issues that continue to be relevant to life and society in our contemporary setting.

While a lot of time is spent exploring the complex and nuanced relationships between black and white Americans, police and the public, celebrities and the media, and others, though, not much attention is given to the interplay between abuser and battered spouse. Maybe it's because the situation seems straightforward enough to speak for itself. The abuse is documented thoroughly. Maybe no one thought there was much more to say. He beat her. He terrorized her. He killed her. (Maybe.) That's all. But I've been drawn to Nicole. Nicole is the silent witness, present every minute. She hasn't spoken--there are interviews with everyone else who had anything to do with the case, the people, or the time period, there are clips from TV news, tapes of legal testimony. But Nicole's voice is heard only on the recordings of 911 calls. Nevertheless, she has called out so strong, so clear to me. All the way through, if you can hear, she is telling the story, revealing the secrets, explaining to everyone, to all of us, the things that only those who have been there can understand. In her story, so intertwined with his all the way through her death, here is what she tells us about life in an abusive relationship.

You will exist in a reality that only you inhabit.

OJ was universally loved and revered. It would have been hard to find someone who found him anything other than an all-around great guy--charming, pleasant, personable, kind. Hours and hours of TV footage attest to it. Those close to him--friends, family, co-workers--adored him. In one interview, a family friend who knew about an early incident of abuse spoke about why Nicole was afraid and reluctant to let others know. He said, "She thought her family would take OJ's side."

Life with an abuser creates two alternate realities; the daily lived experience of others is in direct conflict with your own. Everyone else you know will live in a world where your abuser is charming, fun, kind, likeable--harmless. Imagining him violating the rules of that world will be, for all who live in it, unthinkable. But this will not be your reality. You will live in a world where rules do not apply. The unthinkable happens routinely, but always unexpectedly, unpredictably. The forces that govern your reality will be known only to you, but more importantly, they will be incomprehensible to others; even if you tell, you will not be understood, or possibly even believed. Others might think that your abuser lives in this world with you, but they're mistaken. The two of you are never, ever living the same reality. In his world, the unthinkable makes sense. It is both predictable and justifiable; it can be reconciled with the experience of him that is truth for everyone else. He sees no conflict. He does not experience your pain. In your world, it is only you--you alone will try to understand, navigate, and survive the chaos, confusion, and danger that no one else sees and no one else experiences.

You will be your abuser's primary partner, helper, and support system in your own mistreatment.

Police were called to the Simpson residence for domestic disturbances many times. OJ's first arrest, the infamous New Year's Eve 911 call, was simply an outlier in a continual series of police interventions. In one interview of the series, LAPD Detective Mark Fuhrman is describing a previous domestic disturbance call he responded to at Rockingham, in which OJ was wielding a bat and had smashed all the windows out of Nicole's car, while she cowered in terror, sobbing, in the driveway. After de-escalating the situation until the bat was relinquished, Fuhrman asked Nicole, "Do you want to file a complaint?" Her answer? The same as on all the other calls. No. After that New Year's Eve, when he was actually arrested due to the incontrovertible physical evidence of abuse, OJ was in danger of losing much of his public standing and many of his corporate endorsements. The CEO of Hertz corporation describes how that company came to their decision to stand by Simpson--Nicole called him personally to tell him it was all a misunderstanding, and everything was fine.

No one will be a greater apologist, protector, or PR manager for your abuser than you will. One of the cardinal rules of your universe will be that no harm or inconvenience must come to him, and it will be fully your responsibility to make sure this happens. He will expect it of you; you will expect it of yourself. If you fail, no one else will pay the price. It might seem to others that if you allowed him to experience the negative consequences of his mistreatment of you, that would be in your best interest, would protect you somehow. But you will know the only way to protect yourself--make sure that nothing, nothing bad ever befalls him, especially something that would be directly because of you.

You will never, never--not ever--be completely safe, protected, or free from any hurt your abuser could do you.

Nicole had all the resources of a wealthy woman at her disposal, and she used them. She left the relationship. She moved away. She started seeing someone new. But there was no moving beyond the place where OJ's actions could hurt her. In a 911 call made long after her relationship with OJ was over, as he rages and swears in the background, forcing his way through the back door of her new home, the 911 dispatcher asks her to stay on the phone until help arrives. Nicole's sense of urgency and despair is palpable as she replies, "I don't want to stay on the line. He's going to beat the shit out of me." The dispatcher urges her to stay on the phone, stay safe, but we can hear it in both OJ's voice and hers--he is coming for her, and they both know that no 911 recording will protect her.

You may succeed in moving beyond a relationship with your abuser. You may move forward, begin healing, start a new life. But once your life has been entangled with his, you will never move to a place where he cannot hurt you in some way, if he wishes. Maybe he will continue to attack, assault, or otherwise abuse you, as Nicole and so many others have experienced. Maybe he will simply follow you, watch you, be a constant, unwelcome presence everywhere you go. Maybe he will use the court system to harass you. Maybe he will insist on "being friends", now that your relationship is over, and continually make cheerful overtures that are just as controlling and manipulative as any abusive attack. Maybe you have children together, so he can hurt you in a thousand, million ways both big and little. If he decides to do none of these, to move on and leave you behind, then you may live free of him, at least for a while--he won't hurt you--but you will still always know that he can, any time he changes his mind. Other people may tell you that you are free now, that he no longer has power over you, that he can't hurt you any more. They will mean well for you, and they truly believe this, but Nicole knows better, and so will you. There is no new life where hurt cannot come to you.

You will always be beyond his reach.

One Simpson family friend, in an interview late in the series, explains something about Nicole that he says he believes always frustrated OJ. She was, he says, "unattainable".  Somehow, even though he had her in all the ways that seemed to matter--financially, legally, even physically--Nicole never completely belonged to him in the way he wanted. Nicole belonged to herself. And although she was at his mercy for a time, she took herself back. She took back her power. And even though he literally, physically killed her, he never had her. She lived her own life, she tells her own story. Even in her death, she remained her own. Life or death, she defeated him.

You may never be free from all the ways your abuser can hurt you, but you can still free yourself from harm. You can weather the hurt, whatever it may be, and retain your dignity, your independence, your strength, your power. These are things he can never take from you--you will never belong to him in the way he will try to make you. Hurt may have come to you, and it may come to you again, this is true; but you belong to yourself and yourself alone, and you will always, always be beyond his reach.

For the Single Moms

I admit, right up front, I am far from an expert at the single mom thing. For one thing, I have only been a single parent for four years, which is a blink of the eye compared with many of my friends who have raised their children alone, maybe even from the beginning, and are still going strong all these years later. Also, my kids do have a dad in their lives, so, unlike many moms I know who are truly going it alone, I do have someone who shares some of the cost and time involved in raising kids, and is invested in their safety and welfare. All of which is to say, I know that there are many mothers out there whose strength, tenacity, courage, and endurance I have not been called upon to match, and I'm sure any one of them is better suited to share these thoughts than I. But since I am all I've got right now, I intend to give it a shot anyway. I've learned a lot in these last four years--here is what I want to tell you, all of you, the single moms who are my friends, companions, support group, inspiration, and sanity, as we walk this path together.

1. You can do it. 

Seriously. You can. I know, I know, my texts say otherwise. They say, "I can't do this," and "Seriously. I can't," and "Please come and get them, someone else should do this." But don't listen to the texts. They are sent in moments of duress, they don't mean anything. We all have those moments. Right? (We do all have those, right? That's not just me, right?)

Believe me now when I tell you, in this (reasonably) sane moment, that you are so much stronger and better than you think, and you can do the things your kids need from you. It's so hard sometimes, I know, to take the high road. It's hard to make the choices that are in their best interests when those don't always coincide with the choices that are in ours. It's hard to act intentionally rather than react emotionally. It's hard not to come home at the end of a long day and yell, because there are dishes everywhere, and they were supposed to start the laundry but they "forgot", and no one but you has EVER emptied an ice cube tray, and after all, we can't do everything ourselves. It's hard to remember in that moment that they couldn't possibly understand the weight, and that we wouldn't really want them to--hard to remind ourselves that it isn't their fault that we are the only ones, and they are children, just children. It's hard to do the full-time day at work and the full-time night at home and the all-the-time activities at the school, and still listen politely, through bone-deep exhaustion, as a part-time parent talks about how difficult things are. It's hard to bite our tongue and swallow our tears and wave them out the door and say only, "Have a good birthday!" or "Have fun!" on Christmas Eve. It's hard to have them so close, every second of every minute of every day, and it's hard--so, so hard--to let them go.

But one thing I know is that when it comes to them, you can do anything. You have made it this far, and everything you have done and are doing is for them. Maybe even the reason you are doing it on your own is because of them. And you have an untold reservoir of strength that even you do not know the depths of, and you will draw on it when the moment comes, and you will not be disappointed with what you find. You may stumble, and you may fall, and it may not feel like it, but I promise--you can do this.

Except when you can't. Because....

2. Sometimes, you just can't.

Honestly, there are things that are just beyond one person's capacity to bear. There is only so much of us to go around. There won't be time, money, energy, or emotion to spare for everything--it's just not possible. Check the homework folder? Nope. Return email? Uh-uh. Clean up this atrocious mess? That would mean I'd have to get up off the couch. Sometimes we just can't go to one more track meet. NOT. ONE. MORE. Sometimes we have to say no to things, things we once did or always wanted to do, things that are important to us or to the kids. Sometimes we have to sit down and have a family meeting to decide that there will be no more cooking dinner--ever--because we just can't do it anymore. (Completely hypothetical. Never happened.) (OK, fine. That one's real.) Sometimes we simply cannot listen to one more second of conversation about the most amazing fun and awesome family game night at Dad's, or force ourselves to smilingly accept the warm, homemade, organic, fresh-baked, chocolate oatmeal cookie from the new woman in our kids' (and ex's) lives. We just can't. We can't even.

But here's the thing. And listen carefully, because this part is important. That's OK.  That's been hard for me to get to, but there has never been a time when it wasn't true. Your kids don't need you to be invincible. They don't need you to be perfect. In fact, they need to know that you sometimes can't. They need to know that you need their help. They need to know that you feel the hurt and pain in your lives together, just like they do--that you are all in it together. They need to know that you sometimes get sad, tired, and angry, sometimes make mistakes, that you are human, just like them and just like everyone else, and that these things are survivable. You are doing more for them by modeling healing, grace, and resilience in the face of all you cannot do, than you ever could by making them think there is nothing you cannot do. One of the most important things they will ever learn in life is that true strength comes only from acknowledging our own weakness--if all they see in us is an unattainable perfection, how will they not simply become discouraged and give up when, inevitably, there comes a time when they just cannot? 

So when you're at the end of your rope, just tie a knot and hang on, because even then, especially then, you are doing what you need to do for them. And, most importantly of all...

3. You are enough.

I know it will never be possible to do everything for them. We can't take away the events of the past. We can't get them all the things we will never afford. We can't give them the father or the family we always hoped they would have. No matter how much time and attention we had to offer them, it would always be possible to find a way that we could do more, give more. But right now, we are giving them the thing they need from us the most, which is ourselves. We are giving all we have, and that is not only sufficient but is actually abundant--many others have so much less. Even though it feels as though there is never enough time, never enough energy, never enough money or resources or sleep to go around, we are doing it, friends, and we have got this. Even when we haven't.

You are enough, just the way you are. You're all the mom they need.

#MaybeHeDoesntHitYou

Maybe his eyes are warm and his smile is kind,

When he wraps you in the glow of his attention.

Maybe he talks of the future,

A future with only you in it,

That the two of you will share.

Maybe he is different, one of a kind,

And you love him for that,

And you understand him, he says, like no one else.

Maybe he loves it that you are strong, smart, confident,

But you could be a little less stubborn at home,

Maybe just ask less questions once in a while,

Maybe not talk so much.

 Maybe he doesn't want to hit you,

So when you do those things that make him so angry,

He just breaks things instead.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he's hurt

Because when he's angry, you are afraid,

And that means you don't trust him,

And whose fault is that?

Maybe if you went to the gym and lost some weight

Or grew your hair longer like he wants

Or wore more makeup

Or got someone to help you figure out how to buy some decent clothes,

Or just worked a little harder to please,

He wouldn't have to be this way,

Because after all,

How can you expect to change the way he treats you 

If you aren't even trying?

Maybe you try as hard as you can

Because you have kids and parents and friends and rules

And he is the broken one and you are the strong one

And everyone is depending on you to make this work,

And that's your job.

Maybe he knows you'll never leave.

Or maybe,

None of the things he said about you were true.

Nothing But the Truth

I've always felt, for some reason, ever since I was a child, a pressure to answer any question that was put to me, as accurately, truthfully, and correctly as possible. Unfortunately, sometimes accuracy, truth, and "correctness" have been in conflict with each other. When that happens, I have never known what to do. My seventh-grade science teacher said to me, with a pained sigh, "Lisa. Just go back to your desk, and mark. true. or. false." 

I am caught between all my felt obligations--to give the questioner the answer they are looking for (correctness), the actual facts of the situation (accuracy), and the real heart of the matter (truth). I try hard--often too hard--to reconcile all three, to package the truth together with the facts and make it fit in the correct box. But sometimes there just doesn't seem to be any box that will hold the answer that is true.

Nowhere have I felt this more keenly over recent years than when it comes to my divorce.

When bad things happen, it's only natural that people have a lot of questions. Painful things are hard. They are scary, and not just for the person they have happened to. We are afraid, and we need answers. Sometimes, we look for the answers that will comfort us in doctrine, research, or teaching. Sometimes we simply find them in our own opinions. Sometimes we look to the person who has been most affected, to tell their story, to supply the facts. Knowing the answers lets us feel like we can make sense of it all, like we have it figured out--even that we can protect ourselves from suffering the same outcome.

The questions I've experienced surrounding my divorce have come from all of these places. They've sometimes been asked as questions, and sometimes been expressed as certainties, but even when they are made as pronouncements of fact, there is still a query behind them that is directed with expectation at me. Which answer box does my situation fit in?

Was the divorce my fault? Was it his fault? Which one of us divorced the other? Was it because of an affair? Maybe even one of those dreaded "emotional affairs" we are so fond of warning about? Was it because we thought we could just give up when the going got tough--because we didn't remove "divorce" from our vocabulary? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DID WE LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON OUR ANGER??

"Teacher, was it this man who sinned, or his parents, that he was born blind?" 

We know these are the possible correct answers. Please choose one. We are waiting.

The problem is, I am being asked a question that I can't answer. Not because I don't know the answer. No. I know. In fact, I am the expert. I know every detail, every moment, every memory and scar. I can't answer because it's an impossible question, it's a trick question. No one could answer it.

I didn't get divorced because I wasn't open to reconciliation, or because I didn't pray the Scriptures for my husband, or because it was never a true Christian marriage to begin with. (All of which, in case you are wondering, have actually been said to me.) I didn't get divorced because I knew someone else who got divorced, even though statistics show that people are much more likely to get divorced if they know someone who has, because seeing others who just give up when things get difficult can make you think it's an easy option to give up too. (Yes, also said to me.) I wasn't just unhappy with my husband and decided to get rid of him--in doing so, by the way, making a friend who is currently struggling in marriage think that maybe she can do the same. (Yep. This one too. Not by the friend, of course.)

I know this isn't what people want to hear, but the truth at the heart of my divorce will not fit into any of these preconceived theological certainties. You won't find the answer to it in any article with five easy tips for keeping your marriage happy, or five terrible mistakes to avoid. No marriage class or seminar would have fixed it. Please understand, if any of these things have been valuable to you or are relevant to your experience, I am not dismissing that. I am speaking only of my own situation. The sweeping generalities are part of the problem. But my story, my counselor tells me, only I will truly know, and that will have to be enough, both for you and for me.

So people. Christians. Friends and acquaintances, brothers and sisters, family. We have come from the same place, you and I; we've walked the same, familiar spiritual path, and I understand. I know that not one of you means me any harm. I'm sure that most of you, if you are aware of having had these questions for me at all, stopped asking them long ago, and do not even realize that I am still struggling to answer them, every time I hear you talk about marriage, divorce, and relationships. I'm just learning, myself, how much I still feel the pressure to answer correctly, in a way that will satisfy you, and I know that much of that pressure is coming from no one but myself. I do love you, and I believe we have a responsibility to each other.  I believe we are accountable to each other. I do. Nevertheless, I am finally coming to know, probably too late in life, that sometimes the problem is not with the answer. Sometimes it is with the question. And I have reached a point where the effort of trying to make the truth fit into one of the boxes is tying me in knots. It is hindering my forward motion. There's a problem with the question, and it's time I stopped trying to answer it. It's time, as my counselor says, for me to learn to honor my narrative, not to defend it. It's time to tell myself, and everyone else, the truth. The truth is, it's a bullshit question. It's as simple as that.

After

"Whenever you take a step forward, you are bound to disturb something.

 You disturb the air as you go forward, you disturb the dust, the ground."

~Indira Ghandi

One of my favorite artists, Carrie Newcomer, has a song titled "Before and After". In it, she describes the way that trauma and tragedy strikes us--"The dust settles after a hit and run, bewildered by the damage done". The metaphor always catches me, with its sense of shock, bewilderment, confusion, and, if you have had a moment like this, that unique sensation of time coming to halt. Everything stopping. An end to the world as you know it. It seems as if nothing will ever be the same again.

And, in fact, it won't be. It will never be the same.

This is the first, maybe the hardest piece of learning--that it cannot ever be the same again. As Carrie says, our lives from that moment onward can be framed in terms of "before" and "after". These moments, seasons, experiences, are the watershed moments of life. They change us. They change everything.

Sometimes, it seems as though it takes everything in us just to get from before to after. We put our energy into surviving. We are not sure if we will make it. We keep on, maybe only because others are depending on us and quitting is not an option. We get up another day. Others move around us as if in a dream, as if life continues as always. We keep getting up again, another day and then another. And eventually, to our great surprise, we are through. Everything is not made better, things are not fixed, our loss has not been returned to us. But there is life on the other side of our pain. The question is now, what shall we do with it?

Everything has changed, and we are faced with choices. What does our path forward look like in the new world that has been created? One thing is clear--we can't remain the same. We can try, of course, and some do. But the space that used to hold us has shifted, and any attempt to go on living in the "before" will simply be a painful reminder that "before" is gone forever. As the circumstances of our lives change, our choices and responses must adapt to things as they are, not as they once were. 

Seeing things through new eyes, making new choices, is hard too. Now, not only must we realize that things will never be the same again, but we must learn to want something new. We must do battle with the lie that wanting something good for ourselves in the present is a betrayal of the past; we must tell ourselves the truth, in spite of what our deceitful hearts whisper--that the past is no longer here, and that it no longer requires our devotion. We must know that our love for what was torn away from us in the past is not diminished by our ability to find new life, new love, as our wounds heal and we begin to live in "after".

What happens to "before" then, once we are walking the path of "after"? Immediately after my divorce, someone close to me said, "Now it's time to take some time to heal before moving forward." How nice that would be.  :)  Unfortunately, the healing can only happen by this constant motion forward. Just sitting still or rolling up in a ball, thinking, "Now I'm going to get all healed up before I do anything else," while it sounds very appealing, is not moving away from "before" and toward "after". Healing is a process more like walking across a live minefield. We will only know what's out there when we come across it. "Before" does not disappear. It will never go away, nor should it.

What this means is that the dividing line between before and after is not a clear and bright one. They are inextricably intertwined with each other. Healing from the tragedy and trauma of the past can only be accomplished by moving steadily forward toward the future; the path to the future will always wind through the memories, losses, and fears that are the landmarks of the past. 

So if, like me, you're moving on today, know that moving into our "after" is not a betrayal or an abandonment of our "before".  We can move forward with no harm to what was worth keeping. And if, as we go, we sometimes encounter the pain and loss as well, we can't be discouraged. The dust that has settled in the wake of the impact will inevitably be stirred up again as we survivors struggle to our feet and begin to move away. But never fear--we are on the right path.

Mother of All Christmases

This year, it is not my turn to spend Christmas with my kids.  According to a very fair and well-regulated co-parenting agreement, the celebration of this holiday alternates from year to year between parental households.  (This year, I had Thanksgiving.)  They left yesterday morning with their dad, his wife, and her daughter, to spend four days with their grandparents out of state, and they'll be back on Sunday.

This isn't the first time I'll be spending Christmas without them--it's the second, actually.  This time is different, though, because this year is the first Christmas that will be shared with a step-family.  As the central point of coordination for gift-giving, I've been surprised and a bit alarmed at the flood of emails, inundating me with lists of gift after gift that will be purchased for them by brand new family members, eager to welcome them with open arms.

Each year of the last four has presented a new set of challenges, a new uncertain territory for my family.  And somehow, the holiday season often seems to be the time when the highest of these hurdles are presented.  This Christmas season, as I release my little ones (not so little any more) into the care of others, I have been thinking a lot about that other mother, that famous Christmas mother, Mary.

We Protestants don't like to talk a lot about Mary, lest someone get the wrong idea.  But I think it's possible that Mary has some things she could tell me, and I'd like to hear what she could say--as it's said in Home Alone, "from a mother, to a mother".

I think about how it must have been, as a mother, to release the man that was still your baby, not just to another parent or another family, but to the whole rest of the world.  So many other mothers, sisters, brothers, and miscellaneous claimants on his time, his attention, his life.  It didn't just seem like there were hordes of people trying to claim him.  There were hordes of people trying to claim him, some out of genuine love and devotion, but many for their own purposes, with their own agendas.  His relationship with each of them would be part of his own story, and part of theirs, but not part of hers--she could only look on, with a heart full of hope and fear.

I think about how puzzling, how impossible, it must have seemed, sometimes, to hold on to her confidence in the promise of his destiny.  Her job, her mission, was to nurture him to readiness for his part in a plan she could not know, see, or understand.  So many people, events, and influences lay outside her control. I wonder how many times it seemed to her as if something must have gone horribly wrong.  I think surely she must have second-guessed herself when things appeared at their worst--was this how things were supposed to be?  And if not, was it her fault?  Had she failed him, failed her task, failed God?

I might be wrong, but I think maybe she worried a little, just like me.  Maybe she even cried sometimes.  Maybe her text history would have looked something like mine:

I can't do this.  I'm serious this time.

They need someone else.  I'm just not up to it.

What am I doing wrong?

I know our situations are not the same.  Obviously, she had a lot more at stake than I do.  But to every mother, our own dear ones are The Ones.  And for all of us, the lesson is the same.  They belong to us, but they are not ours to keep.  They have their own story to live, they are part of a larger plan that we cannot know or understand.  There may be a path before them that is longer, harder than we would desire (and possibly greater than we could guess), but there is only One who can direct it.  We can try with all our might to remember to be grateful that they have been entrusted to us for a season.  We can look on, with fear and trembling, with joy and pride, and with unfailing hope; we can be there from beginning to end, every time they look back, fall down, or take off and fly.  But ultimately, stumble or fly they must.  And no matter how painful, confusing, scary, or downright crazy-making it might be, Mary, that other mother, with her heart both full and broken by her baby boy who was Emmanuel himself, tells me--hang on.  It will be all right.

Relationship Status: It's Complicated

I mean yours.  Not mine.  (Sorry, to the approximately 6 friends of mine who clicked here hoping to hear some kind of announcement.)

Yes, you.  You people who are actually IN a relationship.

During this summer, the peak season for weddings, anniversaries, and relationship milestones of all kinds, I've heard it talked about a lot.  Weddings are the obvious leader, of course, because weddings are the time when someone is supposed to stand up and tell us the secret.  No pressure, naturally, but this moment where the bride and groom stand together before all their assembled friends and family is when the one profound piece of wisdom is to be delivered that they will carry through their wedded life--the one that lets them succeed no matter how many others have failed.  Right?  And so often, here is what that wisdom consists of:  Don't be a quitter.

Couple after couple have been told (and so have you, and so have I) that this is the answer to marital happiness.  You just don't quit.  Love, after all, is not a feeling.  It is a commitment.  So it must only be vulnerable to ending if you stop being committed to it.  Many people think that when you don't have the warm fuzzy feelings any more, you are no longer in love and can move on, can give up on each other.  But those of us who know, those of us who are successful, we understand that no matter how hard, personally unsatisfying, or emotionally barren the marital landscape might be, the thing that really matters is that you just. don't. quit.  Then you will stay in love, and nothing can stop you.  You have succeeded.  Congratulations.  It's as simple as that.

One troubling thing about this is that it seems to imply that happiness and success in a relationship depends entirely on you.  But don't worry--summer is also peak anniversary season, and anniversaries make it clear that you're not all on your own.  In fact, it seems to be just the opposite.  Although the secret to a successful marriage was supposed to be not quitting, if you stay together any number of years, God seems to be entirely responsible for the positive outcome.  Apparently, as long as you are faithful to God, he will take care of the details.  Person after person tells the world, "Married 27 years today--God is so good!"

It's been made to sound so simple, the answers so easy.  But I know lots of real people in real relationships.  I know their spouses and their struggles and their life-long compromises.  I know their real lives, and I know mine, and the reality seems at odds with so much of what is said.   And I, for one, would appreciate hearing a different approach.  Particularly as a survivor of divorce, I would find it both refreshing and encouraging if we began to speak about relationships in a thoughtful, intentional, and honest way--a way that acknowledges their complexity and fragility in the circumstances of our real world, the nuanced and delicate nature which exists even when no one just quits, even when a good and loving God is involved.

Yes, God is good, and (as I know there is someone just itching to point out) is the source of every good and perfect gift.  I understand if you believe your spouse is one of those gifts.  But so was mine.  And God's goodness is not the factor that determines whether marriages will endure--if it were, would any marriages end?  If a lasting marriage is a sign of God's goodness, what message was he sending me with a divorce?  The answer, in my experience, is rarely, if ever, that God is good, but one or both partners "just quit".

The truth is, love both succeeds, and fails, for many reasons.  It is a complicated interplay of factors, and it is often difficult to tell exactly where some stop and others begin.  Each person in every relationship must be both willing and able to be a partner to the other.  Being married to someone who fits this description is a reason to give thanks to God; becoming someone who fits this description is another, as it will certainly require his help to do so; and a commitment to continue, even in the face of adversity, will be necessary to go the distance together.

Meanwhile, I'd simply like to ask for an acknowledgement that, if a relationship works, the keys to its longevity are more complicated than they've been made to sound.  And if not, its passing is more complicated than that also.

Hourglass

A few days ago, I overheard a conversation at work.  Two people were talking in the break room, and one woman was describing a painful incident from her past, and how over time, things had become more and more distant and difficult between her and the other person involved.  She talked about how she felt even more hurt, more angry, as the situation wore on.  "Time doesn't make things better like people say," she said to her listener.  "It just makes things worse."

I wondered if she was right.  Conventional wisdom tells us that time heals.  Time gives everyone the chance to cool off, calm down, think again.  Time brings maturity, growth, and change.  However, we all know of situations in which, over time, resentments fester, bitterness grows, hurts deepen, distances widen, and hearts harden.  What makes the difference between a story where time brings healing, and one where time brings only more hurt?  I might be wrong, but I'd like to propose a theory--time does what we tell it to do.

If this is true, that makes how we use our time a rather heavy responsibility.  It seems that the way we choose to use our time will determine what that time does for us in return.  If we use it for things that promote growth, healing, reconciliation, then it will do what we ask.  But if we waste it, squander it, or use it badly, in ways that promote bitterness and hurt, then it will turn ugly, just as we have requested, recalcitrant and hostile, and bring us nothing but pain.  This idea reminds me forcibly of the bewildering story the Mad Hatter tells to Alice at his tea party, about why time will no longer do anything he asks, due to a badly-sung rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat.  ("He's murdering the time!" shouts the Queen, "Off with his head!")

Last week, I asked my 14-year-old, "So, how are you feeling with the holidays coming up?"  He replied, "I don't know.  I haven't thought about it.  Why?"  I said, "Well, this time last year, you were feeling a little stressed.  As though you didn't know what was going to happen."  (If you missed last year's version of this conversation, you can catch it here.)  He looked thoughtful for a minute, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Huh.  Well, I'm a different person this year."

And so he is.

To me, what does this mean about the way we are using our time, and what time is doing for us in return?

I believe it means we are defining our new normal.  We are making time to cook together, read together, camp out in the living room together.  We are making memories that we can hold to and cherish when things are rough, which they often are.  We are talking, talking, talking, about what to do, and what to do differently, when things go wrong.  We're going out to that special-release movie, or that once-in-a-lifetime concert, because life is too short, and our time together will pass so quickly.  We're tackling projects that are out of our comfort zone, building our team--sharing responsibility for the things we share ownership for.  And we have every intention of continuing.  We will gather on a Sunday with friends we love, and be just as happy and thankful as on that arbitrary Thursday designated by the calendar, on which we will celebrate together with extended family and apart from each other.  We will start new traditions.  We will continue to learn to be the family we want to create.  We will look to the future with hope and expectation.

We're using our time well.  And time is doing oh, so much for us in return.  We're all different people this year, I think.

Top 10 Things It Turns Out You CAN Learn To Do Without A Man At Christmastime

1.  Find, cut down, haul home, and set up a Christmas tree.  Actually, there is even much less cursing in the man-free version.

2.  Put lights on the aforementioned tree.  There is less cursing for this part also, unless you count the things you say under your breath when the kids mention for the 800th time how Dad does it.

3.  Budget for all the holiday expenses.  Oh, wait.  You were already doing that yourself anyway.

4.  Plan and shop for all the gifts......no, that's another one you were already doing....hmmm.

5.  Christmas cards--no....bake cookies--don't be ridiculous.....kid's school parties--as if!  Every single other holiday activity--

Oh, for Pete's sake.  Never mind.

Plan B

As I sat at breakfast with my son yesterday, I said, conversationally, "So, how are you feeling with the holidays coming up?"  Immediately, he answered, "Stressed."  I admit, I was a bit surprised.  Not because he's only 13, and doesn't have to worry about scheduling, shopping, traveling, budgeting, or any of the other things that usually bring stress to adults in the holiday season, but because this is our second year experiencing the holidays as a separated family.  I thought the second time around would be easier.  But as we talked, it became clear that, to him, this second year will still feel new, will still be full of uncertainty, discomfort, and his least favorite thing--change. He tells me again his oft-repeated refrain.  "I don't know what's going to happen."

I haven't talked or written here about the divorce.  There is not much that seems appropriate to share, that is ready for publication.  I know so many have their own feelings, experiences, beliefs in this area, and many of these are strongly held.  I have encountered them often in these last 16 months.  I have been surprised at what people are willing to say, ask, advise.  "Are you willing to wait?"  "Please tell me you're working it out."  "You should be trying harder to slow the process down."  Once I was even told, "Make sure you are crossing all your Biblical t's and dotting your i's."  Ah, yes.  Good marks on that heavenly checklist are of paramount importance in a situation like this.

But what I find most astonishing in these well-meaning responses is the certainty.  I'm ashamed to admit that at one time, I probably would have been one of these confident onlookers, would have said the same things, thought the same thoughts.  I suppose I could be described as my pastor, Randy Boltinghouse, identified himself in a recent sermon, "a recovering legalist" when it comes to divorce.  What experience teaches is that it's not so simple.

The question my son has struggled with from the beginning, that he comes back to over and over, is, "Is this, or is it not, God's plan for our family?"  He cannot reconcile himself to my answer, which is that whatever happens is God's plan for our family.  He wants something clearer, more concrete.  Why can't I tell him one way or the other, for certain?  But the only thing I can say for certain is that it was not my plan.

Only a few weeks before my husband let me know of his desire to end our marriage, we were having a conversation about my grandparents, who had been married for 73 years.  When my grandfather, who had been in failing health for several months, passed away at the age of 94, the two of them were alone together in their apartment; my grandfather, resting in bed, asked my grandmother if she would come and rest with him.  Lying there together, he said to her simply, "I'm dying."  She answered, "I know."  And they simply stayed together there until he quietly slipped away.  How enviable, I said to my husband, to reach the end of life that way.  No hospital, no drugs, no machines.  Nothing to separate.  To be able to go away peacefully, in the arms of the one you love, wordlessly sharing the memories of a long lifetime.  That's what I want, I told him.  Let's do that.

When cherished plans lie in ruins, as we struggle to make sense of our loss, I believe we often join my son in his question.  Is this the plan?  Or just a horrible mistake?  Is there a backup plan, a plan B?  And what, after all, was wrong with plan A?  Unlike my son, however, as we approach the Advent season, instead of anxiety and uncertainty about the future, I've come back to a thought I've returned to often this last year--God's plan B.

To fully appreciate God's plan B, we have to first think about his plan A, the Garden.  The Garden of Eden was a good plan.  In fact, it was a great plan--a perfect plan.  It was so good that the image of this Paradise has become an expression in its own right, symbolizing an idyllic existence.  It represents, in the collective consciousness, perfection itself.  And God created this Utopia, declared it "good," proceeded to act in good faith toward his creation, knowing all the while that this perfect plan would not ultimately succeed.  From the inception of time, even as plan A went forward, plan B existed.  Christmas was always coming.

Some important things I think I learn from this. One is that God's plans will come in their own time.  From the day Adam and Eve walked away with Eden at their backs, there was a promise of hope for the future; but history testifies to how long so many waited to see that promise fulfilled.  That famous passage on faith in Hebrews 11 lists faithful believer after faithful believer who labored for a lifetime with nothing but trust in a promise made.  Some, like old Simeon in the temple, lived just long enough to see it realized in their last days of life.  The perfect moment is something that only God understands, at least until it happens, and maybe even after that.

Another is that whatever God's plans are, they will be unexpected.  So many, even those who had been waiting for God's promised salvation, did not recognize the promise's fulfillment when it came.  And who could blame them?  Such an unlikely package--that tiny, poor, illegitimate baby; that odd, provocative, offensive man.

Oh, but when that promise came?  How amazing, how spectacular it was!  How far beyond anyone's wildest expectations!  Who could possibly have predicted it?  Incarnation.  Redemption.  Resurrection.  Not too shabby.

Anne Lamott says, "Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.  You wait and watch and work: you don't give up."  So this holiday season, we may be in the dark; we may not really know where we are going, or when and where we will see the plan, or even if we will see it.  But we wait, and watch, and work for God's spectacular plan B--we wait like those saints, kings, and shepherds of old, expectantly, with hope for the promise that we know will be fulfilled.