Practically Laura

Somewhere Between: Humiliation to Hope

 I wish to keep this posting shorter but sweet, and this topic is sweet:  Hope.  Not just any hope, mind you, but hope in God.  God’s hope.  Thinking on the topic causes this almost physical reaction in me…a warming up…a settling in…a peace.

Sometimes hope seems in short supply.  Sometimes hope’s well is dusty bone dry.  I don’t think I exaggerate when I say that a few of my friends might be there even now.

Frankly, I think hope is hardest to hold when in the in-between time, which is how I define a waiting period fraught with varying degrees of difficulty.  One might lend itself to boredom, another time to despair.  They’re the times we bide until we get a spouse, a friend, a place, a church, a job, a purpose, a house, a grade, a child, an accomplishment.  A consequence.  It’s the time in which we wait for an illness to heal, a prodigal to call, or a tattered heart to mend.

The irony of the in-between time is that the older I get, the more I feel as if I'm there.  I won’t lie to you—they get longer and longer.  It’s impossible for me to count milestones by a semester, or a degree, or a promotion.  At my age and in my circumstances, life can be routine.  I would guess the in-between time is almost ongoing, probably over ninety-five percent of the life I experience.

One of my hardest in-between times was when we moved back to Texas from Canada. 

We loved Montreal.  We didn’t think it was perfect, but it was interesting and an adventure.  We had friends there.  We were trying to put down roots, so we bought a house.

It was a charming, small house in a gorgeous neighborhood.  It was not far out of the city center, so Craig’s commute to work was short (The shortest it’s been during our marriage.).  Then and before we moved in, we borrowed and spent loads of money remodeling it, thinking it to be a good investment.

Little more than a year after we moved in, Craig’s boss called him into his office and told Craig that they no longer needed him in Montreal. 

This didn’t seem so devastating.  We decided we would take the opportunity to move closer to family, and Craig soon had a job at the same firm in Houston.  His gracious parents allowed us to move in with them, and we placed our precious house on the market.

Honestly, I was confident that we wouldn’t be living with them long (more like an extended visit.). Our house would sell pronto, I reassured myself during quiet moments.  It was in a wonderful neighborhood and cute as a button, after all. 

Then it didn’t.

No one wanted our precious house into which we had poured our heart and soul (or should I say money and time), at least not at a price that would allow us to walk away without losing our shirts.

How humiliating and distressing do you think it would be to be living with your husband’s parents for ten months when you’re forty (Yes, I was forty!)?  It felt devastating at the time.  All my pride went down the toilet along with most of our money.

When people asked us where we were living, I would say we were ‘staying’ with my in-laws.

I guess I’m pretty good at spin if I have enough time to puzzle it out.

One day, I was sitting in church with my mother-in-law at Champion Forest Baptist, and a guest speaker gave the sermon.  I wish I could remember more of what he said, but I know it was on the subject of waiting on God.  He gave a moving testimony of some sort.  All I remember is crying copious, quiet tears; and my sweet mother-in-law comforting me.

It was a turning point.  I decided I didn’t want to live in discontent or fear of what petty people thought of us while in the in-between.  I didn’t want to live with a constant low-level of worry about money.

In other words, I decided to believe what I professed.  That God—only God—was my hope.  Our situation was humbling, but I was ready to submit to it because I believed I needed to be there to become more Christ-like.

I did need to be there.

So with hope in God, I let go and relearned how to count my blessings no matter the circumstances.  A good way to put it would be that God delivered me with hope; then He blessed us with a change in living situation.

Yet at times I'm fickle and I forget. So when I'm in the difficult in-between place, I have to once again ask myself some tough questions.  Do I truly believe that God is my strength, rescuer, refuge, and only hope like David (Psalms 18:1-6, 16-19)?  Do I believe that I should fix my eyes on Jesus, so God can guide me through the difficult times, or do I trust my own ability to solve my problems (Hebrews 12:1-3)? Have I embraced the process to become more Christ-like (1 John 3:2-3)? 

Have I decided to see past my circumstances, past mistakes, excuses, and distractions to let God out of the box in which I've placed Him once again?

I don’t have to wait for Him to prove Himself, after all—He already has by the blood of Jesus and the creation of, well, the world.

(It can be a) Happy Friday, everyone.

Somewhere Between: Pathetic Pride and the First Step After Defeat

'The Cedars of Lebanon' by Edward Lear, British. Oil, 1862

"There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well.  The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it…”

-Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

I’m not sure I ever knew what I wanted to be ‘when I grow up.’  As a child, I’m not sure I had any real aspirations. 

After all, I had plenty of time to make those kinds of decisions…or so it seemed.  Life was good.  We had a jungle gym, neighborhood friends and making good grades was easy.

On Saturday mornings, I woke up early, learned to turn the TV volume knob all the way down to zero before switching it on.  Then I would slowly, gently, precisely turn it up.  I could hear it, but my parents couldn’t in their bedroom down the hall.

Once my parents were awake, my dad would sometimes go to Dunkin’ Donuts and buy us three apiece for our Saturday morning breakfast.

I loved the chocolate-filled ones.

There was a fairly strict routine to our lives but within it was safety; it wasn’t burdensome.  We pretty much knew what was expected of us, and it was quite easy to fill those expectations.

With the advent of adolescence, the effortless comfort and safety of routine started to slip away.  More things were expected of us…sometimes we would pick up on this intuitively; sometimes we would get clues from the adults in our lives; sometimes the
expectations dropped on our heads like a tornado dropping from a crystal, clear blue sky—startling, terrifying and spinning us in place.

Social pressure started to increase, and truths previously hidden were often naturally but not gently revealed.

Simultaneously, our eyes began to open to the wounds of and the horrors perpetuated by the student sitting next to us in class as well as of those in the larger world.

Moreover, I think the majority of us were incapable of even touching on enough wisdom or self-awareness to know what to do in the varied, tricky, hurtful and downright sad situations often in front of us.

Everything was just happening.

It took us by surprise.

We were reactionary.

And for many of us it was our first small, unseemly taste of defeat…not for all of us but for some.  It might’ve taken a little longer for a bit of disillusionment to set in, but the settling process would begin.  It started to reshape our perceptions of our imminent steps forward as well as the shape of the map we planned to travel further along—if we even had a plan.

Adulthood grew closer, and the possibility of more disappointment with it.

And we discovered we weren’t steel, concrete or at least some sort of durable plastic because we had believed we would stay intact or maybe even bounce if dropped.

But in reality we discovered we were some sort of glass or ceramic.  We looked tough and attractive and as if we fit on the shelf of expectations, but, in truth, when we fell…we
shattered.

Some crumbled into little, dusty bits as if bisque, in a poof with very little noise and cowering in to hide the wreckage.  Others broke apart into huge, thick, jagged chunks of rough-hewn pottery and a scream heard round the world.  Others scattered into knife-like shards with the quick and strident shriek of crystal flung against the wall.

Then we lay there and tried to put our own pieces back in place…feebly holding on to our pathetic pride…as if it was the only thing binding us together…our best friend. Nonetheless, the well of bravery was desert dry.

And there, in our brokenness, we realized pride couldn’t change us; it couldn’t save us.  We realized our need.

Our need of Someone bigger--God.

Our need of Jesus.

It was finally time to put the head knowledge to good use.  It was time to step on the first rung of the ladder fragrant of cedar and suspiciously shaped like a cross.  A step which didn’t solve all our problems or change the past, but promised to fit our jaggedy pieces back in place.

We thought we’d look ugly with this reworking—all our scars would still show after all.  Then piece by careful piece He began to draw us to Him…closer and closer, upward and
around bends…putting us back.

He was…He is making us into something worthy to hold Him.

So as we look down at ourselves…and we see where the cracks still reside but are now sealed with His love and sacrifice…we realize we’re beautiful.

He’s made us into something so, so beautiful.

The fractures now healed make the once fragile and fragmented vase look like the highest art; they decorate it with our stories…made with words or pictures or patterns which tell us we’re no longer defeated because we hold Him close.

Our stories which once shared…can possibly help others who’ve only now broken apart…and need help.

They need hope.

So maybe, just maybe we should be brave and begin to admit to ourselves we’re not rock-hard concrete, but something a little more fragile instead.  Maybe, just maybe we could then contemplate admitting to a few people our mistakes…or apologize…or the telling of the things we’ve overcome…or the lessons we’ve learned...even if not in great detail because it probably doesn’t call for it.

And that we love ourselves and each other even more because we needed Jesus to put us back together.

Hosea 14:5-7 (NASB)

⁵ I will be
like the dew to Israel;
He will blossom like the lily,
And he will take root
like the cedars of Lebanon.
⁶ His shoots will sprout,
And his beauty will
be like the olive tree
And his fragrance like the cedars of Lebanon.
⁷ Those who live in his shadow
Will again raise grain,
And they will blossom like the vine.
His renown will be like the wine of Lebanon.

Author’s Note:  When referencing the cedar, I wasn’t implying the cross of Christ was made of cedar wood.  I don’t believe the Bible indicates the type of wood used for the cross.  However, the cedars of Lebanon (mentioned in the passage above) are cited often in scripture and used both metaphorically and literally.

Somewhere Between: Twenty-seven and Sixty-seven

Author’s note:  I’m doing so much better now. :)

My internal monologue late in 2011:La, la, la, la, la…I feel so good.I love being in my forties.I can run over five miles, and I barely weigh more than in high school.Look at me! I feel twenty-seven…actually better!I should give myself lots of pats on the back…I’m not sure why, but still…

My internal monologue early in 2012:Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain.If only I could lie on my back and read…or watch TV…or anything.If only I wasn’t limping, if only I could feel my toes, if only I didn’t have a million and one doctor appointments, if only I could sleep through the night, if only I would stop crying in front of my children; then I wouldn’t feel as if I was sixty-seven…or even one hundred and seven.I think I’m gaining weight (to top it all off)…yoga pants are now a staple of my wardrobe.

Okay, yes, I’ll admit I’m exaggerating how good I felt in late 2011 although my statement isn’t far off the mark.

However, on January 1^st, 2012, my story changed drastically.I woke up that morning feeling pretty good.You see, I had been having some back pain…not an unusual occurrence for me, especially since we’d been up in Dallas visiting with family for the holidays and not sleeping in our cloudy-soft bed.

But that morning…this particular morning, I got out of bed and noted my back was pretty much pain-free. Whew!I was thinking it was because we were back in our own bed the night before.So I sauntered on into the bathroom, blew my nose on a tissue (Doesn’t everyone?), and leaned over to throw it into the garbage can located under a countertop.

I’m not sure what, or maybe I should say 'how it' happened, but I felt a snapping or popping sensation in my back, and, even though it wasn’t terribly painful at this point, it did hurt.

And I wasn’t able to stand up straight.

This scared me.

“Craig!Craig, I think I hurt myself!Craig!Where are you?!Craaaaaaaig!” I wailed.

Isn’t it ironic?It always seems they’ve gone to walk the dog or something just when you need them.I’m telling you…I have the best husband ever, but he’s not developed any special, prophetic, my-spouse-is-about-to-hurt-her-back skills.Whassup with tha’ (I’m trying to sound tough like my friend, Lori.She’s from Long Island.)?

And, to be honest, when he did return, he wasn’t able to help me…because he didn’t have any orthopedic surgeon skills either.I mean, M.D.s don’t grow on trees.

Later that morning, I decided to get myself dressed and go to the grocery store.We desperately needed food.I thought maybe I would feel better if I just moved around…maybe the pain would go away…it’s sometimes worked for me in the past, so…

Picture this:I’m limping through the grocery store, throwing who-knows-what into my wonky cart and trying to hold back the tears.I finally make it to the check-out counter, and I’m unlucky enough to have one of those people sack my groceries.

Who are those people?Well, they’re usually male, under twenty-five and have brain damage from imprudent living.Somehow, the switch between their brain and their mouth is stuck in the on position.Heck!I know he probably saw me limp up to the cash register.I’m sure he noticed the grimace on my face, the downturned mouth and the slightly leaky eyes. But he must’ve been sporting some kind of serious hangover to think any remark would be welcome.

Or he knew nothing about women…or he is normally able to communicate telepathically with the checker, but the ability went on the fritz just at that moment…or all of the above.

Hold your breath.

He said, “You look………..”

“I look what?” I nastily replied as if I had a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas; then I did start crying.

But I didn’t ask for any help as I pushed my wobbly cartload out the door, tears streaming down my face and my limp more exaggerated than ever.However, I was in full-blown sob mode by the time I got home.I felt stupid, scared and guilty.

You see…nice, Christian ladies have more patience with their fellowman hence the guilt.Socially adept people ignore silly, incomplete sentences with a smile hence the stupid…and my back was hurting worse than ever hence the scared.

Two days later, after getting no help from a stand-alone emergency clinic and the nurse practitioner at my doctor’s office…I asked Craig to drive me into the emergency room in the middle of the night.I was pretty embarrassed to ask him this at 3:00 am, but I just couldn’t take it anymore.

The emergency room doctors finally gave me some real pain medicine (which I happily accepted), took x-rays and referred me to an orthopedic surgeon.By then, I could find no comfortable position with which to exist, and I’d barely slept a wink.

Sure the pain medicine made me vomit…but I was finally able to get some sleep.

However, I wasout of commission.I couldn’t take care of my children or the dog, I couldn’t take care of the house and I could barely take care of myself. The pain medicine, in addition to making me sick to my stomach, was causing me to be groggy.I would try to remember to write down when I took which pill when, so I wouldn’t be taking too many at once.That’s how bad it was.

Craig had to take extra time off work to help me cope.When he couldn’t be home, his parents filled in the gap.The next week, my mom drove down from Dallas to help me with the kids and dog (Thanks, Mom!I know I was a bit of a pill that week; I’m so sorry.).

Anyway, this is the state in which I celebrated my forty-seventh birthday.

Once I was finally able to see the surgeon, they ordered an MRI…and sent me off to start six weeks of physical therapy.

We soon found out I had a herniated disc.

And they think the running contributed to it and maybe genetics as well, but they don’t really know.

Then I was told I shouldn’t be running for awhile.Then I was told I probably should never run again.

I was at one of my lowest points ever.I was humbled and felt vulnerable.In fact, I could tell myself all day some people had it worse, but it didn’t matter or console me…because I never realized that I’d been running for so long, it had become part of my identity.And I could tell myself I would eventually get better, but I felt no relief…because even though a few days earlier I was vainly, secretly, almost subconsciously congratulating myself for being young for my age…I was quickly informed by my physical therapist eighty percent or so of these injuries reoccur.

Well…it’s been tough.

It’s rearranged the way I see myself.

And it’s rearranged the way I see God.

Okay, I need to go back a few months in time…and remind you I’ve been working on a book.I had a goal to start submitting it for publication this past January or February.I was also planning on looking for a part-time job.Therefore, I’d let go of a few of my activities –volunteer and otherwise- at the beginning of 2012 to clear up my schedule.

Did I know I was going to hurt myself?Of course not, but, at the end of 2011, it seemed the right thing to do.I was extremely sad about losing contact with some of the people I saw on a weekly basis, but my resolve held.

I strongly believed I needed to free up time.

Looking back on it after my injury, I felt much peace knowing God had very possibly led me to these decisions…because otherwise I would be letting more people down than I would’ve without the obligations.In other cases, people were able to easily step in for me during the three or four weeks I was not able to volunteer.

In fact, during some of my hardest times…by the grace and impression of the Holy Spirit…I was able to thank God for my circumstance…feeling the miraculous rightness of a thankful attitude as I cried and without understanding why, but knowing it was Biblical.

And I was able to rejoice in relief and thanks because even though I felt we needed the money from a part-time job, God provided the means for C.G. to start at his new private school in the fall.

Through it all, God has reminded me how good He is.

His love's felt more intense, and I’ve realized he was preparing us all for this hard thing…whatever it was…because we could’ve never dreamed it was around the bend.

Maybe these don't sound like huge spiritual epiphanies, and they're not...except in the moment...your moment.

For those of you who aren’t Christ-followers or spiritually-minded, my musings may not make much sense.You’ll chalk it all up to coincidence…and I think how flat such chalking up really is.How one-dimensional…to dismiss a God, a loving, intervening God.One who so many wise, intelligent, sincere, character-filled, but imperfect people have cried out to in their need over the millennia…and found Him far from wanting…who found He wanted to be their friend.

Do you really think you're 'twenty-seven'? For me, it's sometimes yes/sometimes no. Emotions are inconsistent after all. But, no matter my feelings, I know God loves me (and you, too).