Life on the Margins

     I’ve always believed that I would stand for what’s right. Watching movies like "Amazing Grace," showing slave mistreatment and other movies that depict the South’s cruelty, I imagined that back then I would be the person to stand up. I would clearly discern right from wrong; darkness from light; evil from good. 
     And when, on December 1, 1955, weary Seamstress Rosa Parks was allocated to the margin, and followed her spontaneous conviction to keep her allocated seat on a full bus... I would have tried to be there, for open encouragement (I was a mere 3-1/2 month-old).
     I’ve never been a girly-girl. Gawky, with size 10 feet, I shied away from the high school cheer-leading group. Clueless-ness kept me from any “in-crowd.” I desperately yearned for popularity, but identified with invisible. I feel the sting that “different” brings.
     So, years ago, why did I not step onto the band wagon, protecting a hated and ridiculed people-group? Gay relatives are in my extended family. One, even in the 1970s, despite his strict religious upbringing, unpopularly lived the early days of gay, a scorned and secretive lifestyle.
     In 2007 a female relative quietly “came-out.” For years I earnestly and sincerely searched my heart for the loving response. I looked to the Bible, because I am a fully devoted follower of Jesus Christ. In other words, I attempt to love Jesus and others, and worship a Holy God.
     Now, with the newly-passed nation-wide acceptance of gay marriage, I should be cheering. A formerly shunned people-group is now officially accepted by the government. My Facebook profile picture should be rainbow-filtered. But with deep regret, it cannot and will not be.
     The Old Testament’s Isaiah 5, combined with or “rainbow-arched” to the New Testament's Acts 5 story of Ananias and Sapphira, today crystallize my beliefs. The couple, Ananias and Sapphira, separately "...fell down and died." Why? Among other suppositions, Bible scholars presume because it was a critical time in the fledgling Church’s formation. Honesty, love, and sharing were crucial for the Church’s sustenance.
     Encourager Barnabas sold a field and gave the entire proceeds to the Church. On the heels of that, Ananias and Sapphira followed suit, selling a piece of property and presenting the proceeds to Apostle Peter. They claimed their donation was the entire sale amount. They held back. They misrepresented their gift as being equal to Barnabas’ sacrifice.
     Their deed was pre-meditated. They blatantly conspired together to lie. Darkness was presented for light. Evil for good. The New Testament journals the sad and shocking woe directed to Ananias and Sapphira. Their souls instantly left this earth. But one day might we see them in Heaven?
     My relatives’ excitement for being officially accepted by our government and as a couple by the health care system is understandable. Two years ago my blog sorted through some confused thinking: Walk a Mile in My Shoes. My heart grieves, and they know my personal feelings. They appear to present openly, for all to see, their all and their best. They are amazing people. But only God and God alone knows their hearts and whether or not they hold back.
     After years of soul-searching, it is not pleasant to "come-out" officially with my increasingly unpopular stand. Christians live in America, but America is not a Christian nation. So, why be surprised when our government overturns Christian-based laws? We were founded on those laws, and until a few decades ago, the courts attempted to uphold them. But then we started to become the "enlightened" [sarcasm intended], and set free from biblical standards.
     June's National recent ruling in favor of gay marriage distills my nerdy beliefs, and pushes those beliefs to life on the margins. In Isaiah 5 (not a light read) the Prophet shares 6 unpopular woes that I believe apply to America today. Psych. Surprise. And even whoa. I am protecting a scorned and ridiculed people-group, standing up for the rigid and inflexible... for those who attempt to embrace the sobering Isaiah 5 woes balanced with Micah 6:8:  "To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."

     

Sisters: Matching Bookends

     The unexpected (and prior to this undesired) opportunity to move back to my childhood "neck-of-the-woods" is in the realm of possibility. The Chicago area's long, cold winters are what my husband and I bristled at, over 35 years ago. 1975-79 college years of slamming, brutal, snowy winters highly motivated us to head anyplace South, to warmer weather. We've barely glanced back to permanently reside that far north until this past 2 weeks.

     I think about the uncanny idea of living just 15 miles from my 4-years-younger sister. Sadly, we've not seen each other in years. Yes. The last time we face-to-face saw each other, our now 31-year-old daughters were just 7 years old. Why so many years?... 

     ...Unfortunate.Complicated circumstances.Beyond our wildest imaginations.Undiagnosable difficulties.And distance. 

     Familial elaboration was unearthed in 2012-13 blogging and would be painfully repetitive.

We're bookends, holding up the light pole

     My sister and I share many similarities. We're both 5'6"-ish; have rather large shoe sizes and long legs. We have two children, a daughter and a son. Our daughters are the same age (her daughter's name is a derivative of mine). Our grandsons were born just weeks apart (thank you, Facebook news feeds). We both married gifted men and have single, adult sons. And the list of similarities goes on.

     And yet, in many ways, we are mirror images or bookends. She is like Mom; I'm like Dad. She's blonde; I'm brunette. She freaks at math; I tolerate it. She was a high school beauty queen; I was invisible. She acted and sang in high school plays; I was tone deaf and a stinging wallflower. Since marriage, she's always resided in the Chicago area; since marriage, I've lived anyplace but. In some ways, our identities seem to have flipped. 

     I envision that we may curiously act alike, and walk alike, at times we might even talk alike... yet, would we jibe relationally IF this opportunity actually congeals?? We're one pair of matching bookends, different as night and day, separated by time, space, and puzzling circumstances. 

The cutie pie cousins, 24 years ago

     It would be quite surreal for two long-lost bookends to at least meet again. To maybe have our cute hugging daughters for pale connection, after 24 long years? The cousins missed experiencing puberty together, and zits, and dating boys, and weddings, and child births. We, and they, are essentially strangers. 

     To shed grieving tears for togetherness experiences lost seems fitting. And, in our nearing senior years of life, could we even attempt to re-connect, to laugh, to have fun? And to forge a delayed, unique bond? Or has too much water flowed under a dilapidated bridge? I sigh, I wonder, and I dare not hope.

Running from Crazy Documentary Link

An interesting 1.5-hour documentary with M. Hemingway, "The curse":

Running From Crazy Documentary

(PG-13 @ 1:09 due to crude language)

Autrovert Diaries: LIFE OF DI

     This blog tiptoes to Pi's dark side, so IF there are those daring enough to read on, approach with caution; and, for focus, drink a stiff, caffeinated beverage.

     Many of us have survived difficult childhood events and relationships. But add to survival a dark-factor, like the potential evils and barbarism of desperate starvation and isolation in Life of Pi, and thriving is questionable. It takes a complex mind to separate. We "dysassociate" and mind-split. Some events are never forgivable. Humanity is human.

     People generally understand difficult times. They comprehend starvation, and thirst, and loneliness, and maybe even brutality. But there is an nth-degree, going beyond hurting another. It is unimaginable devouring that can happen in intangible ways, too. It is a complicated twist that is sometimes forgiven only later.

     Being raised viewing various enabling and unhealthy co-dependencies aren't the only issues that children in alcoholic homes deal with at young, tender ages. The term "alcoholic home" is a sanitized label. In some homes, forces more powerful than alcoholism "complexitize" survival. Seemingly good, upstanding families can be paranoid and display dark passivity; sexual frigidity dynamics meet mega-denial. Mind -splitting and -numbing tactics are childhood survival techniques and powerful ways to sanely cope.

     When a young boy is raised in a strict religious home, and, as a young adult, intentionally chooses to walk away from his upbringing and faith, it turns dangerous. He meets foreign powers and forces that were never in his childhood home. His marital promise to his betrothed: "Don't worry, I love my mother, but her rigid religion won't tell us what to do. I've got it all figured out"... 

     Dad's errant logic is permanently penned in a 65+-year-old love letter. He independently met humanity, with arrogant 20-something reasoning. He believed he didn't need God to captain his passage through manhood. He would eventually be engulfed.

     Mom's family had no spiritual background whatsoever. The wedding ceremony was not performed in a starchy church facility. The Patriarch Father-of-the bride was strikingly absent from the ceremony; his scandalous, mid-1940s unfaithfulness, ugly divorce, and rebound re-marriage blotted out any possibility of spousal forgiveness or an official wedding invite. Mom surprisingly sides... with her charming Father. She marries a Type-A, like her perfectionist Mother. Maybe to subliminally mimic the simmering mother/daughter relationship.

     To appease the "gods" as well as his nagging religious mother, Dad drags his family to a watered-down denomination a few times a year. Rather than a personal faith in God, he possesses a watered-down legacy or cultural faith. He works hard to show he loves his family. He is one of the pillars in the community displaying his intelligence and charm.

     The stubborn newlyweds both run from their disenchanted pasts. Their differences first passively conflict, then chaotically, collide. Within 10 years (this is gory, so cover your eyes) each will attempt to figuratively pulverize the other's strangely strong will.

     For 12 long years their offspring are randomly tossed and rocked, especially the vulnerable younger ones. Trauma alters their complex minds. They grow up feeling confused and lost, like castaways, with a mysterious, heightened awareness that might be labeled Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The past is neatly swept under the carpet, never to receive closure; until marriages and Mom's tragic 1990 funeral unleash a compelling disturbance in the force.

     Their only hope through adulthood is to be overwhelmed... by a loving Savior and a strong God. This powerful God has somehow helped a writer, marooned on a meager wreckage constructed of life vests and oars, to eventually paddle to the safe shore. She arrives drained and questionably sane. The life-giving tiger slowly slinks into the woods, and her hope-filled race horse gallops off into the sunset, rider-less.

     This child's mind was forever ransacked, by three generations of good people: parents, parents' parents, and grandparents' parents. They were engulfed by waves and unsuccessfully strived to fix humanity and wrestle with God. The generational buck stops here. I... willingly... yield.

     "I'm sorry... for not stopping their madness." It is such an insufficient response. I, too, should feel pain, and I ask:

• Do Hollywood movies like Life of Pi jibe with my reality? I hope I haven't over-dramatized the past; its crippling impact is not exaggerated.
• Can my circular, foggy, frozen mind let go and forgive... myself?
• Why couldn't I have saved or fixed my family? I'm sorry!
• In the raisin years of my life, will I yield to God and my unhealthy self to wield the savory essence... of strength?

Matthew 11:28

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

    This postscript to the entry above is written 3 weeks and a huge awakening later. I now wonder if one of many factors in my parents' marriage was their complicated physical makeup as well as their 6 children's. I recall sibling rages (and mine), and schoolwork challenges. Were we extra difficult to raise because of environmental issues and food intolerance? Did Dad begin drinking because of frustration and disappointment with his children? Did he crave alcohol because of his allergies and then illogically "act out"? Dealing with special-needs children takes special patience as well as "a village" (Hillary Clinton). My parents disengaged from their parents. They were isolated, with no help. Information about food's negative affects on children's emotions was rare in the 60s. People understood symptoms like sneezing, asthma, and skin sensitivities... but what about erratic rages and depression? This is a generational thing that needs to stop. We deal with a new generation, with mysterious food intolerance. Lord, we need Your wisdom and supernatural help. Have mercy! It is easy to feel discouraged, yet, I yield and refrain from anesthetizing reality. Through my weakness God reveals himself as even stronger.

Autrovert Diaries: MR. HAROLD

     The phrase Goodbye Mr. Harold echoes in my mind as I take a Saturday afternoon walk with my husband. We turn the corner and I lightly ask: Do you think Harold and Mary are home today?

     Of course I know the answer. They moved out just two days ago, two states and forever miles away. I spent most of Friday preparing a dinner at our house for them. I chopped sweet potatoes. I tore, washed, and spun-dried lettuce. I washed mushrooms and chopped onions. The meat was perfectly tenderized and cooked. Everything was perfectly prepared... for a special farewell.

     They arrive, and our meal chat is warm as well as the food. The specific details of our conversation are almost a blur... maybe because I'm thinking about too many things.

     On Saturday's walk, tears dribble from my eyes as I talk about the finality of their move... their house looks so cold and dark. There will be no more spur-of-the-moment yard or telephone chats. I feel like quite the dork getting so emotional. Jeff, why do I feel so strongly about a neighbor moving away? Why does it feel like a death?

     Maybe because Mary felt like an older sister to you?

     Mary was like a sister! My real, 4-years-older sister, Confident Carla, was a childhood "roomie," in-and-out of my world. We attended activities together, as a family. Carla is still in and out of my life, but we have never really connected relationally.

     Confident Neighbor Mary was also in and out of my world, but differently. We shared interests, backgrounds, ideas, eggs, and backyards...with and without our make-up intact. We had almost synchronized grand-baby boy arrivals. We bonded, surviving silly backyard adventures together.

     The infamous Laverne-&-Shirley armadillo-kill is forever etched in my mind. It was mid-morning when I received a call from Mary: "Did you see the armadillo in our yards? He's right by our berm. The armadillo being out this time of day is unusual, so he might have rabies. I've called Harold to come kill it."

Armadillo-kill

     I peer out my bathroom window, and then I move to the bedroom bay windows and spot the varmint. "Yuck! Yes, Mary, I see him. He's now in my yard!! I'll keep my eye on him for Harold's arrival."

     Hero Harold soon enters the scene, with shovel in hand. Mary and I stand trembling in our respective backyards, hair-rollers intact, disgusted by the ugly, pointed-nose creature. We, too, are frightful sights. I want to video the kill, but before I know it, with no hesitation and with deadly force, "whack-attack!!!" Harold is the victor, and we have one bloody armadillo corpse. Ewwwww!!!

     I even wrote a lamenting Facebook entry, including laughable remembrances like the "whack-attack," as a tribute to Mary's looming move, preparing my sad heart for her departure:

2013 has had its lows and highs, with bitter AND sweet memories. As I prepare to help Neighbor Mary pack, her eminent move is one of those lows. I recall fond times drinking tea & coffee and chatting on our back porches; a [Laverne & Shirley] ugly armadillo-kill, deer-devastation, and a [Lucy & Ethel] literal cell phone frightening lightning strike between our houses floods my memory; snow shoveling, airport runs & synchronized yard work, her embellished lettuce salad with homemade dressing, shopping and farmer's market adventures, and now, sadly, her neighborhood departure. As I purchase her decorative Asian-décor storage cabinet, it will reinforce the memories of her and other kindred friends ...the cabinet is downright practical for beautiful storage. Ah, ever the organizer!

     The meal is over, as well as chatting. Harold and Mary walk through our kitchen and head for the front door, to forever exit from our neighborhood's daily world. Harold shares a moving story: Many times when I worked in my front yard, the little girl across the street, Katie, loved to stand in her front yard and yell, "Hi, Mr. Harold."

     Last week Katie, again, stood in her front yard and yelled: "Hi, Mr. Harold!" but this time she added, "...Can I come over to say goodbye to you?"

     Of course, Katie, please come over!

     "Can I come into your house, Mr. Harold? I want to say goodbye to Mrs. Mary."

     Why, yes! Please come in.

     Katie experienced closure that day, and Harold's story is a perfect closure for my goodbye.

     For the past 9 years, our little corner of the world has had a warming thaw. We were quite blessed, with friendly yet courteous, day-to-day, neighborly neighbors. Goodbye Mr. Harold.... and goodbye, Mrs. Mary.


Proverbs 18:24
A man that hath friends must shew himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother [or sister]. 

Autrovert Diaries: MUSTANG MOMENT

     Ka-zing, -zing... -zam! My grandson's pulverizing death ray shoots through the computer screen as we Skype. Inspiration randomly comes, to exit when zinged. The glee in grandson's widened eyes is evident as he energetically giggles and clearly says...DeDe!!

     I pop back to the screen, and JJ joins the entertainment. Our 3-year-old is ready for rounds 2, 3, 4, etc. as both grandparents exit the screen when ka-zinged. His arcade-like, repetitive nature is fed, and we non-verbally communicate interest in his world. What is our ultimate goal? To chat with our daughter.

     That is just one brief and treasured Skype session. It ends as my lips approach the screen's microscopic camera to send a smooch-kiss with: DeDe loves you!



The "One, genuine & tasteful" rule applies to "Mustang Moments" too

     It is more than worth our repetitive zinging play when his garbled
...wove woo... boomerangs back, with a responsive and reciprocated smooch kiss.

    This simple playtime with our treasured little duckling probably won't be remembered by him years from now. He's too young. But, there is another who viewed our grandparental yielding "Mustang Moment."

     ...our dearest daughter might remember, and hopefully she feels our endearing love, for her.

Proverbs 22:6
Train up a child in the way [s]he should go: and when [s]he is old, [s]he will not depart from it.

"Mustang Moment" inception is in a previous blog, a gallop (or easy click) away

Autrovert Diaries: The LAND OF SWAN

     Something awakens me at 3:00 a.m. (probably my husband's trip to the bathroom; not unusual). Sleep refuses to return, even after 30 minutes (not unusual). Off I traipse to the kitchen for laptop therapy. I mistakenly open a can-of-worms email which creates herculean restless and wrestling emotions. This night-owl is awake for 2 more hours (not unusual, but for longer than usual).

     Finally, I return to bed. Ah, sleep returns. Just before re-awakening, a brief but defining first-ever dream-scenario occurs. I am in a room with others, and I catch the eye of elderly Grandma Schoene (my husband’s grandmother). I approach her, and we warmly hug, for lengthy moments. She then whispers SIX. KEY. WORDS:

"It will all work out fine."

     I open my eyes to a most unusual, foreign, nurtured and warm calm. Who cares about that email, anyway? Everything will work out fine! 

     This dream and its therapeutic result may seem trivial to most, but it is my first-ever dream-hug. I awoke feeling warm and peaceful, and I now ask: Is it normal to have disjointed dreams and only rare dream-dialogues? Did I ever bond with my mother?

     My childhood mind was foggy, and I felt incredible tension and emotion. Eye contact and meaningful communication were rare. Two vivid, early childhood, eye-to-eye-like encounters include:

1. Age 6, after a night of loud fighting, my well-meaning Mom and Dad together make an (unfulfilled) promise to one very confused little girl: "I heard you crying last night... Daddy will never get drunk again" (the sole alone-communication with my parents that I recall prior to junior high).
2. Age 7-ish, I sled and re-sled a short mound of snow, when a random, nurturing female teen stoops to my level. She attempts to look this tousled, rumpled soul straight in the eyes and says: "Let me tighten your babushka."  



How do you tie a babushka? With a scarf knot.

     During the developmental ages 1 to 6, a figurative, powerful and crippling weather front hit our home... similar to the Midwest's 2014 polar vortex. The deep-freeze halted my relational development. Our manageable family of five swirled, adding three, stair-step, younger-siblings. The weather front hovered, with the freezing mix of one in-state move, an infant sister's near-death spinal meningitis, and Mom's 1960s invasive gallbladder removal, with 4-week recuperation.

     I was unable to pull myself out of the deep-freeze and have no recollection of older-sibling nor kindred-Grandmother help... maybe due to brain freeze? At age 6, random family dysfunction crashed into our world. Throughout my high school years it intensified, and I didn't know to console my younger three siblings. Desperately-needed training... to enter the Land of Family Connection... was iced.

I'm the dork, sandwiched between Barbie dolls & spears, photographed by older bro.
Mom's gallbladder issues & random family dysfunction were spinning

     Birthed in the mortal-middle of five other energetic siblings, sandwiched tightly between two dare-devil brothers, we enjoyed family ice skating, Mary Poppins "parades," and craft activities. I, unfortunately, felt too old for younger-sister Barbie fashion shows, and I was too young for older-sister Girl Scout meetings. My brothers' ritual ant burnings and savage frog hangings were unsettling. I later learned that the scallywags once hid on either side of our bushes, frightfully ambushing my best friend, viciously waving sticks and scaring her to death. Safety inspectors needed to label our home: Quarantined.

     I was generally the invisible floater; neither noticed nor teased, painfully alone and unable to break through to join age- and gender-cohesive family relationships. I was reactive. Dysconnected parental approaches failed miserably. I assumed a cat-like pose with arched-back scary hisssss. The deep-freeze continued to swirl, containing me. What was my relator-wannabe's essence?

Autistically P.o.l.a.r.i.z.e.d.

(dropping damaging ice balls to survive; with rare, selfless adult-yields to thrive.
Do I fall somewhere on the wide autistic spectrum? It's a jump-ball)

     A tender "yield" moment in the (somewhat cheesy and predictable) movie, The Princess Diaries, hits my vulnerable Achilles heel. It is warmly connecting and can almost be missed by the untrained autrovert eye. The unexpected death of gawky teen Mia's long-distance father (who unbeknownst to her was Prince of Genovia) creates tension for a microwave-speed, ugly-duckling TO graceful-swan, transformation.

      Queen Grandmother's recent, first-ever, face-to-face introduction into Commoner Mia's American life, combined with swan stressors, is ripe for relational deep-freeze. Rather than creating a larger grand-gap, the busy yet endearing Queen senses Mia's discouragement. She intentionally chooses "the important over the urgent" [Covey] combined with the warm, extended-hug, connection-approach:

"Let's have fun together...

will you be my San Francisco tour guide?

Yielding MUSTANG MOMENT: ...alright, Mia, we'll take your

undependable, treasured, vintage MUSTANG."

 

      Queen Grandmother's selfless "yield" to Mia unleashes my blubbery, all-consuming, ugly cry. Did her treasured little duckling successfully navigate: THE LAND OF SWAN?

      Will this autrovert healthfully model "Mustang Moments" and babushka-tyings to her ducklings?

My "Mustang Moment" is just a gallop (or easy click) away