Perspective

A different blog post will talk about all the changes I've experienced recently and what God is teaching me through that.  The only part of that story you currently need to know is that the last several months have involved change:  lots of change.  It's all really good change, but sometimes change is hard.

Years ago, I remember a friend often talking about how she just needed "perspective".  Yeah, okay, what on earth does that MEAN?  She mentioned needing GOD'S perspective on her life instead of her own.  I've thought about that some over the last few years, but I haven't exactly dwelled on it.  Then, at the beginning of this summer, a friend/mentor encouraged me to start looking at why I had some reactions I did (example:  why does it annoy me when this person does this).  I realized that if I took long enough to do that, the problem was some sort of issue in me- not in the other person.  Something in me was reacting to something in them.

I was talking with another friend/mentor and she started talking about choice.  This just days on the heels of another friend talking about focusing our eyes on God and some other things.  My friend/mentor was talking about how in every situation we have a choice on how we respond and move forward.

Something clicked all of the sudden in August.  I was preparing to transition out of a Lifegroup (small group at my church) that I loved and where really good things had happened.  To be honest, for a couple of weeks I felt sorry for myself and was angry that I had to leave.  All the while, I knew that ultimately I trusted God and that He had a plan and a purpose, even if I didn't understand it or like it at the time.  Suddenly, it clicked what that friend had said years ago:  I needed God's perspective.  I needed Him to reframe situations around me.  Instead of grumbling and complaining about the fact I had to leave one group for a bit, I started getting excited about the opportunity of getting to fellowship with another group of people and learn from them.  I find that when I start panicking or feeling down, that asking God to reframe the situation through the lens of hope and security often immediately helps me go back to that place of rest, hope, and peace.  I have to FIGHT to remind myself that I see only dimly and a small piece of the story.  In the midst of the big picture, that pain is microscopic.  But fighting is neither easy nor haphazard.  It requires me to get out of my head and CHOOSE to believe truth and good things.  It requires me to quit feeling sorry for myself and remember that it's for HIM and HIS glory, anyway.

But the fight is worth it.  It's worth it because He gave everything for me.  It's worth it because all of us want to be a part of something greater and bigger than ourselves.  It's worth it because He's never let me down.  Not.  one.  single.  time.  He's always showed up- maybe not when or how I wanted Him to- but He has ALWAYS showed up.  He's ALWAYS brought peace, comfort, rest, and hope.  So when it feels like I'm about to be swallowed up by the whale of my problems, I remember that HE will always show up- even inside the belly of a whale- and I always end better than when I started.  

August 11, 2002

Phone calls in the middle of the night are rarely a good thing. The odds of it being a good thing go down exponentially when you have a loved one in the Cardiac ICU. I remember waking up to my mom's cell phone going off. We missed it. The number was local. So he's fine, right?

Then the house phone rang. All of our stomachs dropped. I remember hearing my mom say, "should we come?"  It was about 2 am. My mom said my dad had gone into cardiac arrest and we had to go to the hospital (an hour's drive away). I packed a bag, knowing we would be there a while. I'd heard that if you're loved ones died, you could feel it. I felt nothing. 

My mom called my grandma to tell her we were on our way. Realizing it might be a hard drive, my mom called a family friend. Funny enough, he used to be a FedEx driver. We arrived at the hospital and were met at a side door and taken up to his floor. They took us into a small room. I think they call it a family consultation room. Nothing good happens there. They calmly explained that my dad's heart went into tachycardia (beating too fast, so fast that it can't actually pump anything) and they couldn't get him back. 

Shock. No. This wasn't happening. I never felt him leave. I hadn't seem him the last several days. Then, seconds later, calm. I heard a peaceful voice say, "'I know the plans I have for you,' declares The Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, to give you a hope and a future.'" Well, that's weird. 

For this post, I'll spare you the details of the next couple of hours, though I remember them vividly. We left the hospital and I emailed some people. I needed them to know. I slept for a few hours. Then, I went where I always knew I'd go if a tragedy occurred on a Sunday or Wednesday: I went to church. I needed to get out of my house that was so filled with sadness. I needed to be with friends. I needed comfort. So I went where I knew all of these things would be. 

Let me divert for a second. I've heard the quote, "Religion is the opiate of the masses." In that moment, I didn't want religion. I leaned heavily on my relationship with Jesus and assurance I'd one day see my dad again. Those truths were a balm to my soul and a comfort- just like when I was a kid and had a bad dream I wanted my mom or how I call a friend when I've had a crappy day. I was still completely aware of the reality that my life was forever different; I was also acutely aware that this pain was temporary and I'd see my dad again. 

I remember people's faces as I walked in the church. I remember my teacher hugging me as closest friends watched me dissolve into tears. I remember how those friends stood around me so I didn't have to endure all the well-meaning "I'm so sorry" statements (FYI, my family called one family in town. By the time I made it to church, almost everyone had heard). I'll never forget how incredibly loved I felt that day. I'll never forget the feeling of "where else could I possibly go"?

So, today, I'll do the same. In fact, I'll be at two services. I'll go to lunch with friends and celebrate. But today, I choose joy. I choose peace, the peace that surpasses all understanding. I choose to honor my day's life instead of giving into grief. 

11 Things no one tells you about grief

Well, if you are friends with me on Facebook, you probably saw that Sunday is the 11th anniversary of my dad's death.  August 11th is my singularly least favorite day of the year (yes, even including Father's Day).  So, you may be able to expect some posts this week- probably about grief.  Then again, I promised in my profile that I may not be the most consistent blogger ever.

Today I was thinking about all of the things no one tells you when you experience a loss or are grieving for any reason.  There are LOTS of things that LOTS of people will tell you.  (You can read more of my thoughts about that here.  That being said, there are lots of things no one ever told me and I wish maybe someone had.  So, without further ado, 11 things no one tells you about grief/loss:

1.  Whatever you're feeling (unless it involves serious thought about ending anyone's life) is okay and it's normal.  Insanely mad for zero obvious reasons?  Okay.  Abnormally worried someone else might die?  Okay.  The trick is to acknowledge the emotion and work through it so that it doesn't rule your life.

2.  There will likely come a day in several weeks, months, or years, when you realize you didn't think about your loved one for an entire day.  It's okay that you didn't- you haven't forgotten him/her.  It's okay that you feel guilty about it.  Most of our loved ones would want us to move forward and not be consumed by grief.  I think the best way we honor those who have gone before us is to live life to the fullest and carry on their legacies.

3.  At some point, some well-meaning person will say something insanely idiotic.  Even better, it might be someone of your same faith who distorts your shared theology.  As you inwardly visualize yourself turning into a lion and mauling them to death (okay, maybe that's only me), have grace for them- they really are trying to be comforting.

4.  Most people expect to miss the person and things about them.  What may hit you like a semi is the lost future you have with that person.  I've mourned much more over the friends my dad will never meet this side of Heaven and the events he'll never make it to.  It took me years before I could watch the father/bride dance at a wedding and not inwardly weep or have to get away.

5.  Nothing will ever be the same, but that doesn't mean everything will suck forever.  Sometimes I am keenly aware that a holiday or event is missing someone important.  Other times, I enjoy the new traditions I've made since my dad passed away.

6.  Everyone handles grief differently.  Not only is that okay, it's a beautiful thing.  Make room for the differences and celebrate them.  Communicate what you need.

7.  At some point, the immediate outpouring of friends and obvious support will start to wane.  Give grace to others.  They're still there and they want to help, it's just less obvious how to help after the initial shock.  Communicate your needs and let people in.  Also, give yourself some grace if you get mad that others have moved on with their lives while you simply can't.  It's okay you haven't and it's okay they seemingly have.

8.  At some point, someone will come to you for your expertise on grief.  Yes, you are now an expert.  Remind them that everyone is different, but give them some pointers.

9.  Have grace.  Have grace for yourself on days when getting out of bed is a victory.  Have grace for the days where you just need to pretend you're fine.  Have grace for others when they let you down.  Have grace for those who don't understand.  Have grace for the well-meaning people who drive you insane.  Have grace for the person who interrupts your dinner, when you finally went an hour without being consumed by grief, and tells you they're so sorry.  Have grace for the person who makes your grief about them, who needs you to console them for the loss of YOUR loved one.

10.  Do what you need to do.  If you need to cry, cry.  If you need to be angry, be angry.  If you need to become a vegetarian, become a vegetarian (yes, I know someone who did it).  If you need to yell at God, yell (I promise, He can handle it).  If you need to pretend, pretend.  Don't worry about fulfilling the expectations others have on you.  At the same time, don't stay where you are forever.  Lean on your family, community, and Jesus and start to try and move forward- not just attempt to put back together what will be forever missing a piece.

11.  Grief doesn't play by the rules.  It comes at you in the sneakiest of times.  For years, I cried sometimes when I saw a yellow pickup truck (my dad's dream car when he died).  I wept watching the movie What a Girl Wants because I so deeply identified with the girl.  At the same time, joy comes in the weirdest places.  I smile when people talk about Panchos, remembering how much my dad loved it. I smile when I realize I've done something (like completing my first semester of grad school) that would make him proud.

I hope this helps.  It's some of the things I would have liked to have known.  Maybe it's better I didn't.  Feel free to comment with your other lessons.

When devastation hits down the street.

Last Monday morning (May 20), I was driving down 4th street in Moore on my way to my doctor's office for a regular check-up.  I remember looking at the 7-11 and thinking about a time I stopped there.  I don't know why I thought about it as it wasn't really a memorable trip.  I drove down 4th street to Penn and then cut up to my doctor's office.  While there, we talked about the recent and impending tornadoes.  As I left, he told me to be safe.

Less than 7 hours later, that 7-11 was no longer there.

Talk about surreal.  We got off work early.  As I pulled into my neighborhood, the sirens went off.  I hurried into my house and into my bathroom.  I realized later I wasn't in any real danger, but there's still something unnerving about being huddled in the bathroom of your not super sturdy looking apartment alone wondering if you're going to have to hang onto your toilet (which you have been needing to clean) for dear life as a tornado rips over your apartment.  My electricity started blinking.  My internet went out.  My phone service started getting spotty.

I don't even know how I found out that Moore had been devastated.  I texted my sister, who lives a couple of miles north of the devastation.  She was huddled in a safe room with a bunch of 5th and 6th graders.  No word on her house.  I texted our friend Courtney, who lives VERY close to the devastation.  She was okay, holding down the fort with several high schoolers.  No idea about her house.

Went to dinner with friends and saw the devastation for the first time.  There are no words.  It's bad enough seeing devastation on tv.  It takes on a whole new meaning, though, when you know where they are filming and realize it is only about 10 miles away.

The last week has been surreal.  I keep telling people I wasn't affected by the tornadoes.  My house is fine.  My friends and family are fine.  Their houses are fine.

But I realized we have all been affected.

I hear therapists at my work calling their clients to see if they are okay and see how much damage happened.  Due to HIPPAA regulations, I can't really tell you their stories... but know that several of them experienced horrific circumstances and came unfathomably close to death.  Some lost everything. I see pictures all over Facebook of friends of friends who lost everything.  I get daily emails about how to help in Moore.  While friends are helping with relief efforts, I'm sitting at work trying to carry on when really I'd rather be in Moore.  Very little separates Moore from Norman.  In fact, until a year ago, I lived in Moore.  No, I haven't been to see the damage.  If I were going near there, I'd be helping instead of gawking.  It's surreal to know that much of what I have become accustomed to seeing is gone.  It's sad to think of the number of people who have lost everything.  This disaster was too close to home to forget just because it isn't the headline on CNN anymore.

So, I'm changing my answer.  Yes, I am affected, though not nearly in the way that those living in Moore have been affected.  My whole perspective on an altogether not amazing week was changed (more on that in another blog, perhaps).  Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I found myself remembering everything could be much worse.  At the end of some pretty bad days this week, I went to sleep in my own house with electricity and safe water, thinking of those who were not.

When Doubt Draws Us Closer to God

So I started a list of blog posts.  This wasn't one of them.  :-)  This one came from having a conversation with a friend going through a "faith-building" season (when are we not all in a faith-building season???!!!).

I've noticed something over the past few years.  Actually, I've noticed several things.  One thing I've realized is I'm my own worst critic (another blog post for later).  The thing I've noticed more and more recently?  That whenever my faith waivers a little, I get out the boxing gloves for myself.  It goes a little something like this.  I feel like God promises me something.  I start out super faith-filled.  Then it gets hard.  I still am full of faith.  Then it's hard and it's been a while and I realize I didn't sign up for this long of a wait.  So I kick myself.  I get disappointed that I don't have an unwavering faith.  Then I start believing again. Then I waver.  Kick myself.  Feel full of faith.  It's a bitter cycle.  Mixed in there are the times of me calling out to God asking Him what was going on and asking him to please confirm what He has said.  Then it hit me.

Sometimes doubt is what draws me closer to the heart of God.

Think about it.  Ever see a kid who isn't quite convinced his parents are going to come back from a trip or pick him up from the nursery at church?  What does he do?  The kid clings.  Nothing else matters and suddenly that kid, who is otherwise rather self-reliant, suddenly will not let go of his daddy.

When I'm doubting, or at least wavering, I talk to God a lot.  Like A LOT a lot.  I whine.  I ask Him if I really can hear His voice.  I ask Him if He really did say what I think He said.  You know what happens?  He ever so kindly reminds me that I can hear His voice, He DID indeed promise me something, and reminds me I was made to make it.  In those times of doubt He draws near and I cling to Him like a kid unconvinced her daddy really is coming home.  Those moments are so intimate.  I also find that right after that, I feel like I can have faith for years.

I'm not suggesting doubt is a spiritual discipline; I'm not suggesting we should have more of it.  I'm suggesting that maybe we should quit beating ourselves up about our doubt and run to our Daddy.  Let HIM tell us we can hear Him, assure us of what He said, and remind us we were meant to make it.  I'm suggesting that we let doubt spring board us into the presence of God so that we gain intimacy and gain faith.

Beating ourselves up doesn't fix anything; clinging to Jesus fixes everything.