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| Yesterday was Sassafras' graduation from Safetytown. I was so glad she had done the program, as I had been a volunteen for it for many years growing up. I tried to discourage her from being, "the loud," one at the graduation ceremony, worrying that she was annoying everyone else. You know, I don't really think she was. In the hallway afterwards, I ran into an odd part of myself. The firefighter who had been assigned to her classroom (130 kids, divided up into classrooms, each had their own firefighter or police officer) said what a joy it was to have her in class. Okay, I've known for years that I can't take a compliment well. With my kids, I'm especially resistive for taking credit, since I have only been a part of their lives for such a short time. Yes, she is fabulous, but who gets the credit? The few fabulous foster parents interspersed with wretched ones? Birth parents? A caseworker who really does care? I have to say I think she is a great kid inspite of all the bad and through all the good she has been exposed to. To be this amazingly loving child, even though she has never lived more than 11 months in one place (and that was birth home) must mean there is something great inside her. I do realize that this rambling answer is not appropriate for future compliments. So I've decided to deal with it this way. If someone says something, I'm going to tell them, "When God made her (or him for the same applies to Dauntless too!), He was just showing off. I can't take the credit. But I can give the credit to the One Who deserves credit for all good things. | | |
| So this past weekend was Women's Getaway Weekend (formerly known as Home League Camp). There were a lot of things that needed done, and a lot of socializing to do too. When you have that many women together, people are bound to ruffle each other's feathers. There was one point when I realized how something was being done, and I didn't like the way she was doing it. I started thinking to myself that the way I would have done it was right, the way she was doing it was wrong (I'm not saying who or what, it's probably not what you are thinking it of anyway. I'd be the only one to notice this). And I started getting irritated by it. Then I stepped back and said, "Her way is her way. I have to let her be her." Man! That felt good! It felt like when you get running really fast and the wind starts blowing through your hair, and even though you are sweaty, it feels really refreshing. That's how good it felt. I don't know if it is because I am leaving my mom's ways of thinking, starting to think more the way Pouredout Prince Charming does, or finding my own new way of thinking. But I like this. I like not needing to get hyper in my diaper about everything. And God so blessed me Sunday morning. Since none of my ladies came with me, I had started fretting about who I would sit with on Sunday. God told me, "You'll feel at home." Home, okay, so I started looking for the Zanesville ladies. Zanesville will always feel like home. I couldn't find them. And just as I went to sit next to another dear friend, she moved and I could not find her. There was an open space near a gal I had met Friday night and she welcomed me to it. I sat quietly working on my crochet, waiting for the service to start. Then my yarn ball dropped under my seat and went behind it. This was God's doing, because the person who helped me get it was a friend from Senior Solider retreat years ago. We caught up with each other, and I found that not two, but three of my most staunch cheerleaders have been promoted to glory in the last year. Her husband will be missed, he was a blessing. The rest of my row filled in, and there were some ladies I knew just a little bit; yet somehow it did feel like home. I'm not one to let emotions wash over me in public. I don't cry in public unless I absolutely have to. Sunday morning, it felt safe and necessary to. Ever the rule follower, as I started to weep during the altar call, I almost stopped myself. Female officers are all on duty during the altar call. God assured me that His daughter who gave that assignment would excuse His daughter who needed to have a private chat with Him. Part of that conversation was in the bathroom, but still, it was safe, I could do it. When I left the bathroom, I looked at my puffy eyes and realized there was no passing this off as allergies. I am finally to the point where it's okay if people know I was crying. I don't have to hide everything. When I'm transparent, I'm able to accept help. Would you believe one of the ladies from another corps came up to me in McDonald's afterwards, told me she could see I was struggling, and let me know she was praying for me?! The old me would have made up some variation of, "No, I'm fine." Phyllis Jr. would have played that card. I didn't have to. I thanked her and hugged her a few times, told her some of what was hitting me (some of it I didn't understand until I finished the drive home). But you know, I always thought accepting that kind of help would make me feel weak. It actually made me feel much stronger. New friends make me feel stronger, better. Feels good, and it is all God's doing. | | |
| Now that Mom is gone, part of my wrestling with her is wrestling with how her opinions about people clouded my opinions, making me think less of some people who are probably really great (perhaps making me think more highly of others who didn't deserve it, but I'd rather think too highly than too lowly of someone). I realize we all go through life agreeing with our parents perceptions of people. I mean, if Mom says their great, they're great, right? And if Mom says they are a jerk, then obviously they are a jerk. But I was fortunate enough to have a Windex-on-the-glasses moment about 2 summers ago. One conversation: Mom and my beloved friend and mentor. I heard it from both sides. I knew she had no right to resent my mentor. I tried to convince her how wonderful he is, and to look at it through his eyes. She never did. So I started wondering who else had she cast as evil, but was really a wonderful person? Who else have I missed out on getting to know because she said they weren't worth knowing? In a way I started resenting her for it. I wanted to get back at her for telling me that all these great people were jerks when they really weren't. I think I had started to do this, in my own way, before she Went Home. I continued to stay close to those mentors whom she hated. I intentionally complimented someone I knew Mom did not approve of. I started rethinking my opinions about a lot of people. And then I got a facebook friend request, from someone my mom had convinced me was evil incarnate, but God had told me to love. I accepted the person as a friend. I've prayed for her before, and I do want to encourage her. But that request made me feel so good, so sinfully good, like I was getting revenge on my mom. It's not like I am harming my mom by being nice to this person, it just felt like it. So I wonder. This can't really be revenge. God doesn't want us going after revenge. This is really about reconciliation, reaching out to people my mom has been mean to, building bridges, being grateful that some people want to be around me even though my mom was a jerk to them. Reconciliation is not something God reserves for Himself, but rather something He tells us to be agents of wherever we go. I know it is something He wants for me. And I wonder further, who else in my past did I miss out on because of Mom's opinion of them? I'm really wondering if I should contact my father's side of the family, and try to mend some fences there. I lived 26 years with his last name, but I never learned who he was, or what his family was like. Maybe one of the blessings of Mom's passing will be reconciliation there too. I'm not sure I'm that courageous yet. But for now I am so thankful that a Witness for Christ taught a Bridgebuilder how to build bridges. | | |
| Yesterday was not a fun day to be his Mom. The nice way of of saying it is, "we have attachment issues." And they are our attachment issues, not just his, because how he feels affects all of us. The reality of it is, my little boy can throw a fit for days on end, but stop and be angelic during school hours, even when he misses his morning concentration medicine, then start right back up again the moment he sets foot off the bus. So yesterday seemed quite unfair as I received the anger that rightly belonged to his birth mom, and realized his teacher was getting some of the sweetness and helpfulness that rightly belongs to me (he has yet to have any behavior problems at school!). So what do I get in all this? When he goes to that dark place where he really doesn't like himself, I get to join him there and shout, "I give a crap!" until he sees how amazing he is, no matter what he has done. I get to sing my 9 year old lullabies, and listen as his screaming turns to the rhythmic breathing of sleep. These are songs only his, "real," mama can sing to him, because only his real mama knows what his heart needs to hear. No genetic parent could have done better. As I realized the privilege God was granting me with this, I fell to my knees to pray for my son. And I could feel the physical presence of the Holy Spirit, wrapping around me, kneeling with me, praying for him too. This is not the easiest way to become somebody's mom, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, this was the way God always had planned for me. I know this because I know the words to his Mama Song. | | |
| I'm trying to resolve the Xanga vs. Facebook thing, especially since I now exist in both worlds. I'll admit, I was feeling disloyal to Xanga, but there are so many more people playing over there on Facebook. I've resolved it in my mind this way: xanga is inside my home, where I run around in my fuzzy sweats. What I put on here, I do it for me more than anything else. This is the stuff I want to look back on, see where I've been and how I've grown. If you are still reading me, then I appreciate you taking the journey with me. Facebook where I put on decent jeans, some bright tye-dye, or even a, "normal people" style shirt, and go out to play with people, some of whom I know well, some that I don't. I'm still getting up the nerve to ask people to be my friends that I haven't talked to in decade or so. But I'm getting a little bolder with it every day, so I think in time I might even be friends with the, "cool kids," from high school. Today is May 18th. Mom would have turned 68 today. I'm feeling it. Saturday I tried to help someone else leave, "The Land of Should," which I had tried to help Mom leave so many times before. I don't think I ever got Mom out of there, but somehow it felt like I was honoring her to try and help. Sunday afternoon I helped Prince Charming repair tent tabs. You know the tabs that have the holes in them, and you stake them down to the ground? He had put up our new, 3 room tent a few weeks ago, slept in it Friday night with Dauntless, and left it up Saturday while they went to soccer and I opened our building for AA. There was a wind advisory that morning. If our neighbors did not have a fence, we might not have a tent. To attached the tabs securely, with minimal interference with the waterproof qualities of the floor . . . well Prince Charming was glad he married the child of a seamstress. Sitting on the tent, problem solving, adjusting the fabric in my lap as if I knew what I was doing, telling him that a ruler would be more useful than a thimble, I felt connected to Mom. I can fix things. I can sew beautiful, useful seams. I think it might be time to try the sewing machine again. I know I can get it to work. I probably know more about making patterns work than I realize. Who knows, maybe Sassafras will get the beautiful smocked dress I always dreamed my daughter would have, but had given up hope on. Then again, maybe I need to stick to finishing their blankets. | | |
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