Satisfied

Right after I published my last post, I spent a couple of minutes on Facebook before turning in for the night. I ran across a post from a friend, about a conversation with a colleague at the school where she works. The teacher told her that the only way to get through all the stress of this crazy year is to focus on being thankful for something every day. He also said it's important to make ourselves vulnerable so that we don't miss out on meaningful relationships.

I fell asleep thinking about both of those ideas. As I mentioned in my previous entry, I'd already been thinking about all the reasons to be thankful for the most important people in my life. Now I considered something I'd written several times on my inventory, in the column about the long-term effects of others' actions: "mistrustful... I built a wall." 

I don't like having walls up. I spent too many years hiding behind them, a prisoner to my perfectionism. How disheartening it was to find myself ensconced inside what feels like a fortress, to be lonely, yet afraid to open myself up for more hurt. I probably prayed about my feelings, but I soon lost consciousness because it had been such an emotionally draining day.

When the light woke me, I stretched luxuriously and then reached for my Jesus Calling devotional. Within moments, my eyes widened as I recognized one sacred echo after another, as if the entire entry had been written in response to my spoken and unspoken questions about how to let my walls down and how to open up and receive the unconditional love that I crave.

Making Room for All the Good Stuff

 A few months back, I started my second Celebrate Recovery step study. This program for finding freedom from "hurts, habits, and hang-ups" follows the same 12 steps from Alcoholics Anonymous, but from a Biblical standpoint. The first time I completed the steps, I found it difficult to probe deeply into my past because I was weathering the agony of divorce at the time. This time, I'm struggling to let go of emotional and spiritual pain from my Hashimoto's thyroiditis flare-up last summer and fall. 

Today I took a day off to work on my personal inventory, a critical part of step 4. I could have done it at home, but I wanted a quiet place where I wouldn't be distracted by piles of laundry and dirty dishes. My friend and coworker Melodie graciously offered me her little Air BNB apartment, A Little Bit Country. "I want to contribute to your project," she said.

She did more than just give me a bed and a quiet place to get alone with God. When I arrived yesterday afternoon, she took me for a walk through her lovely neighborhood out in the country, interrupting my chatter over my latest crush only to point out this abandoned church.

After that, she and her husband Brad fixed a delightful dinner of grilled chicken and vegetables with grilled cinnamon pineapple slices. Wow! The dinner was almost as enjoyable as the conversation; Melodie recounted the most entertaining stories about her mission trips to Latin America and a journey to a Mayan village for a college research project.

I woke just before nine this morning to a wonderfully quiet house and some strong coffee Brad had left for me. Since my doctor advised me to avoid coffee due to its acidity and the possibility of inflammation, I usually enjoy only one cup a week, diluted 50 percent with chicory. The full-strength coffee, on a Thursday, felt extra special. I figured it would fortify me for the daunting task of reviewing my entire life and listing everyone who'd hurt me as well as everyone whom I'd hurt. Another of Melodie's rich gluten-free brownies couldn't hurt either, I reasoned. 

A Better Sweater

I started this entry on 9/27/20, and tonight I will finish it at last.

Over the last 15 years or so, my faith has carried me through anxiety, health issues, severe stress, heartbreak, and loneliness. The tougher the battles, the deeper my roots grew, and the more precious my Beloved became to me. I'm not saying I didn't struggle; if you've been reading long, you know that isn't true. But through it all, I always leaned on a deep trust in God's faithfulness, and what a comfort that was.

Last July, a combination of prolonged work stress and a drug interaction triggered a severe flare-up of Hashimoto's thyroiditis, an autoimmune disorder that I've had since my twenties. The flare-up led to chronic pain, inflammation, digestive problems, weight loss, and mania due to prolonged insomnia. I was out of work for five months, and a slew of other problems ensued which I won't burden you with. 

Somewhere along the way, I felt so alone and so broken that my faith suffered a grievous injury. I felt betrayed and abandoned by even my Beloved. Although God continued to take care of me in beautiful ways, and although He restored my physical, mental, and financial health, the nagging fear that He couldn't be trusted drove a wedge between us.

I never turned my back on Him. I continued to pray, read my Bible, and meditate on scripture, yet nothing seemed to penetrate the sadness that overshadowed me. On a walk in the park a couple of weeks ago, I told Jesus, "In the past, I used to feel like there was a veil between me and you. I felt that you were near, but I couldn't get close to you. Back then, you helped me cross that veil. But now, it's worse. I feel..."

I paused on the trail as I searched for an apt comparison. "I feel like I'm in a tomb." Tears slipped down my cheeks, and the darkness was so heavy that I could feel its weight. "Please, Jesus. Please help me," I prayed. 

When Sweet and Sour Don't Mix

In addition to being a food person in general, I've always been a breakfast person. Often my last thoughts before drifting off at night are dedicated to planning my breakfast menu. Saturdays are the best. Nearly every week, I enjoy a special treat of Costa Rican coffee with lots of nut milk and a modest serving of maple syrup. On a good week there might even be some type of healthy pancakes.

The Friday before last, I went to bed with my mouth watering for gluten-free toast, fried eggs, and thick-cut bacon, plus my usual 8 ounces of coffee. When my eyes opened the next morning, a smile formed on my lips before I could even form a conscious thought. Special breakfast day!

It wasn't until I got to the kitchen that I remembered this vexation:

All Creatures Creepy Crawly

On a Monday night a couple of weeks ago, I was just finishing the seemingly endless bedtime routine. Even though I hadn’t done anything strenuous that day, I was so ready to fall into bed, but after I’d fed the cats, one look at their favorite litter box in the laundry room told me I’d better not skip that step tonight.

I squirted my nightly dropper of CBD oil into one side of my mouth and held it there for the two minutes it took to scoop out a shocking quantity of pee clumps. The second box was empty, as usual. Dumb cats.

I swallowed the oil and scrubbed my hands thoroughly through two mental choruses of “Happy Birthday.” Allyson and I had already read the Bible and prayed, so in one more minute I could stretch out on my memory foam mattress, topped with a cool-gel memory foam topper. Ahhh, I sighed as I dried my hands.

On my way out of the kitchen, some motion in my peripheral vision stopped me in my tracks. It was CiCi, cavorting under the table. I smiled. As much fun as she was having, you would’ve thought we’d given her some catnip. What was she playing with?

Since I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I had to lean in close to find out. Ugh! Here was her plaything.

Don't Close Your Eyes

On Sunday my baby turned 14. You know how people tell you when you have a newborn, “Don’t blink, or you’ll miss it”? It’s true, of course. One moment your sweet, cuddly baby looks like this:

Hospital Picture

Ethan and Allyson

And then she’s thinking about things like nail polish.

And then she’s starting school, and she’s so smart and sweet and kind that you can hardly bear it. You just want to squeeze those cheeks and plaster that face with kisses, but already she won’t let you.

First Day of Preschool

The next thing you know, she’s in middle school. She’s busy with soccer and volleyball and track and homework, and the rest of her time goes to her friends. 

That’s when you wish you could’ve stored up those delicious snuggles, when you get lonely for the lovely young woman who still lives in your home yet feels worlds apart sometimes. 

Me Enjoying a Delicious Snuggle

But then...

Just when you’re getting dizzy from the relentless passage of time and the frenetic pace, the world grinds to a halt overnight. Enter COVID-19 and the quarantine.

Spilling Time

On my lunch hour yesterday, a bag of dried thyme burst open when I dropped it.

“I just spilled a bunch of thyme,” I remarked to Allyson as I passed her on the way to retrieve the broom from the laundry room. 

“Mmm,” she replied, eyes never leaving her cell phone screen.

“Doesn’t that sound poetic, spilling thyme?” I asked, but I was left to ponder that thought alone.

I did ponder over it all through my customary lunchtime walk in the park. What could it mean to spill time?

Sonlight Shining Through the Cracks

Last Friday, a blog reader I didn’t know I had reached out to check on me. I told him I’ve been writing a blog entry in my head for weeks, and I knew it was time to write it down and share it with you.

I wrote most of this entry on my lunch break that day, sitting at my cluttered kitchen table next to the window. The sky was a dull gray, and I felt too chilly to venture out for a much-needed walk in the park. Even so, I didn't feel as down as I might have felt a week or two before.

Over these last weeks of forced isolation, God has been working a transformation in me. Actually, it started before COVID-19 locked us all in our homes.

Ever since I started working again in early January, I’d gradually been feeling better in mind and body. The daily warm greetings from my friend Laura, and the repartee between her, myself, and our colleagues gave me a reason to get out of bed and pack up all my meals, drinks, and snacks each day.

One area of my recovery lagged behind, though. I missed my old closeness with Jesus dreadfully, and I often cried when I prayed about it. Because of all the struggles I’d been through over the preceding six months, I often found myself listening, if only for a moment, to my enemy’s constant refrain: “Maybe He really isn’t good. Maybe He can’t be trusted.” 

Come Walk With Me for a Mile or Two

I've been working on a longer blog entry but thought I’d share a few reminiscences that carried me to a happy place today.

In need of motivation for sweeping and mopping my kitchen, I searched YouTube for “80s cleaning music” and found a fabulous three-hour playlist. 

By the second song, I was feeling so sad over the contrast between those carefree days and the current Covid-19 worries and resulting isolation that I almost turned the music off. But then the third song inspired me to tell myself, “Relax… don’t do it.” I forbade myself from thinking unhappy thoughts and just enjoyed one song after another, letting the memories swirl through my head and even my body as I remembered….

• driving my old green bomb (a 13-year-old 1973 Dodge Coronet) as fast as I dared, with the windows down and an Alphaville ("Forever Young") cassette blasting, on the short commute to my summer job at Six Flags Over Texas amusement park. My driver’s license was practically still warm from the laminator. (I cried when my dad made me buy that back-firing monstrosity for $1000, but I soon realized I could carry five belted friends; mine was the car of choice for off-campus lunches.)

• Too many Girl Scout trip memories to tell. My two faves: (1) the time the most mischievous in our troop stuck menstrual pads covered in red marker to the side of our chartered bus. I was mortified because the prank wasn’t discovered until we’d been driving a few hours. The rest of us couldn’t figure out why people kept honking. Good times! (2) the tearful reunion of various configurations of feuding, hormonal adolescents in Washington state when someone played Michael W Smith’s “Friends Are Friends Forever” over and over on the bus. (I don’t know how our leaders managed up to 28 girls for up to 3 weeks at a time. Maybe a bit of wine after we’d all turned in for the night.)

• countless sleepovers with Dawn, a Girl Scout friend. Riding our bikes all through the neighborhood. Swimming in her pool. (I was jealous of how great she looked in her bikini.) Telling secrets in the dark.

• slow dancing with Kenny at a dance hosted by my Girl Scout troop. I was shocked when I discerned a spark of romance while we laughed uproariously at the Spandau Ballet song that was playing; I’d thought I hated Kenny due to his merciless teasing for years in English class.

• flirting with older boys in chemistry… and math… and economics. But never in German class. My memory of that class was discovering that someone had opened the second-story window and stuck licked gummy bears to the casement. They'd drawn speech bubbles with the words, “I’m gonna jump.” Also I remember my friend Dawn painting her fingernails and toenails in class. I had a picture I wanted to share but can't find it. Frau G was pretty cool, and a great teacher. (When I caught one of those older boys, I didn't know what to do with him, so I ran away.)

• first real kiss in my front yard. I think his name was Mark.

• sharing a better kiss under the stars on the high-jump mat at the local college with my first real boyfriend

• going to the Ranger game with another Girl Scout friend, fearless M. In the first inning, she convinced a young man to buy her a very tall beer, after which she: -decided the game was boring and we’d have more fun on our own -stole a Barry Manilow cassette from a random unlocked car on the way out just to drive some faceless person crazy -called our mutual crush Coach K on a pay phone(!), and then put the phone up to my mouth. I don’t remember what I said, only that I spluttered rather than spoke. Ah, Coach K. He was 23 years old and rather cute, very short but with the most delightful muscles. He responded to all my journal entries and made me feel like I had something meaningful to share. He is the only teacher I ever remember having a crush on. -enlisted my help looking under the couch cushions at her dad’s apartment for loose change for donuts at Winchell’s, where she sat down on a curb to pee. -somehow delivered me home safely before my 11 p.m. curfew. I'd never been so relieved to slip through the front door.

• sneaking out of choir with M to buy 9-inch chocolate chip cookies at the French bakery, and then getting caught and crying when Mr. M. expressed his bitter disappointment in me

That 80s playlist got me through sweeping, mopping twice, and folding a load of clothes, plus writing a blog entry. Thank you for walking a bit down memory lane with me. I hope you enjoyed it as much as my daughter Allyson did when I read her my list just now.

What are your favorite memories from your teen years?

Sisters Emily, Amy, Me - 1986 (age 16)

1984 (age 14)

Siblings Melody, Emily, Rick, Amy at my first wedding - 1989 (age 18)

Prom night with Byron (first husband) - 1988
Most vivid memory from that night:
a girl throwing up on the hem of my dress in the bathroom

An Uninvited Guest

I've missed you guys lots. I think of you often and have many stories to share but very little time to write them. My life is mostly consumed with planning meals, cooking them, and cleaning up the kitchen afterward. Throw in laundry, exercise when the weather permits, and plenty of sleep, and there go all 24 hours in my day.

Here's a story that a normal person would never share, but when you read it perhaps you will understand why I just had to tell it. If you're terribly shocked, my guess is that  you haven't been reading this blog very long....

I'd been anticipating my Sunday morning shower for two reasons. First, due to my severe dry skin, I shower only twice a week in the winter. Oh, how I love standing under the warm water--not too hot!--for as long as I dare, even though I know my skin may hurt for a day or two afterward.

Second, I'd just gotten all my hair cut off on Saturday, and this would be my first time to style it. I was really hoping it would look as good as it did when I'd left the salon.

I'd mistakenly set my clock an hour ahead on my dad's advice, so this week I planned to enjoy a leisurely shower before church.

I let the water run for a good three minutes while I brushed my limbs, back, and stomach with a natural-bristled brush to stimulate circulation and lymphatic drainage. It stings just a bit, but it's very invigorating.

The water was nice and warm when I stepped in, turning my back to the flow and closing my eyes as I sighed, "Ahhhh."

It only took a moment to wet my shorn locks, and then I opened my eyes to reach for the preservative-free shampoo bar, which I keep on the shower ledge outside the door. (I learned the hard way that you can't keep a shampoo bar in the shower, or it will melt away to nothing.)

I wasn't wearing my contacts, but I had no trouble spotting something that didn't belong in the corner of the shower pan, to the right of the door. It was big and brown and... terrifying! Had Ethan still lived at home, I might have mistaken my uninvited shower guest for one of those toy bugs that used to take my breath away for a moment. This water bug, as motionless as a toy, was the length of my thumb, and all too real.

Like the bug, I froze. The only thing that moved was my vocal cords; I started to scream but sort of swallowed the sound even though Allyson was sound asleep on the other side of the house and couldn't possibly have heard me. Maybe I didn't want the giant roach to hear me. In any case, the only sound my throat emitted was a strangled squeak.

My thoughts seemed to tumble over one another in slow motion. What should I do? If I moved, the bug would run. The only thing I had in the shower that might kill this thing was a bottle of neem oil, but if I hesitated even for a moment, the bug would run at me.

The sensible thing to do would have been to step out of the shower, reach back in and turn off the water, dry off, and return with a shoe. But the warm water was so divine, and the bathroom would not have had time to steam up yet, and I couldn't bear the thought of stepping out into the cold with my soaking-wet body. So I made a very foolish decision.

I decided to share the shower with the roach and just try to finish very, very quickly. There was only one problem with that plan. Although you can use a shampoo bar, with its luxurious lather, quite quickly, there's no rushing the process with a conditioner bar. You're supposed to run the bar up and down the strands of your hair, which is surprisingly hard when your hair is super short. Basically I just rubbed it all around my head while I kept my eyes trained on the still motionless roach.

So far, so good. Now all I needed to do was rinse my hair and wash my armpits and nether regions with yet another soap bar. There was no question of shaving the legs today.

I'd just begun the rinsing--carefully, with my eyes open--when the roach started scurrying toward my feet. I yelped out another strangled screech and sprang into action without any conscious thought.

In one motion, I somehow flung open the shower door and leapt over the brass-edged shower pan, landing on the fluffy rug. Meanwhile, the roach ran to the opposite corner, behind where I'd been standing. I don't know who moved faster, but somehow we missed meeting in the middle.

With water spraying through the open door and streaming in soapy rivers down my body, the rug was drenched in seconds. I scarcely noticed the cold as I stared at that bug, statue-still once more, and pondered the best course of action. I really did not want to smash a roach on the wet shower floor when I was only half done washing.

After 30 seconds or so, I flipped over the plastic drain lid, pulled down the shower head from its hook, and blasted that bug toward the gaping hole. It happily scrambled down when it reached the edge, and I slapped the drain cover back in place.

Back under the warm water, I was unable to enjoy the rest of my shower because I couldn't stop mentally replaying a video I'd shown my students last year. Roaches' articulated exoskeletons are incredibly flexible and strong. Did you know they can be compressed to half their height and still run full speed?

That meant that my shower buddy could easily squeeze back through one of those holes in the drain cover any time it wanted to.

My trembling as I slathered neem oil over my wet skin was not just from the cold, therefore. But I finished the process without incident and was soon standing on the waterlogged rug. The only problem I had to deal with was washing that rug, which was dirty anyway.

So it all turned out fine in the end... even my hair.

Photo from that fateful morning--with clothes

For the record, my house is not infested with roaches. Those water bugs live in the creek across the street. The ones who wander in are usually slaughtered by my cat Arwen. A typical Russian Blue, she is an accomplished hunter, so typically all I might encounter is a dismembered leg--or head, eww!!

I may have to rethink my policy of keeping Arwen out of my bathroom.

Beyond What I Could Ask or Imagine

One of the beads strung on my necklace of answered prayers is a new job that far exceeds anything I’d asked or hoped for. Around Thanksgiving I finally had the courage to take an unflinching look at my finances, and I knew I had to start job hunting immediately. My original plan was to substitute teach through the spring semester and seek a position as an ESL (English as a Second Language) teacher for the fall.

I wanted to substitute two or three times a week at the middle school where I taught last year, both to continue exerting an influence on my former students, who are now eighth graders, and to help out my colleagues. Very few substitute teachers will return to that school, and consequently the teachers frequently must cover each other’s classes in the absence of a sub. The job is beyond exhausting under the best of circumstances, and I know from experience how hard it is to lose one of your off periods. Since my weekly volunteer time there was typically the best part of my week, I was actually looking forward to working as a sub there. 

At the same time, I had a nagging sense of unease about returning to the classroom. The stress and hard work of last year was undoubtedly a factor in the recent flare-up of my autoimmune disease, Hashimoto’s thyroiditis. Although my recovery over the last five months has been dramatic, I don’t feel confident that my body could currently weather the stress of a job that demanded virtually all of my waking hours. How could I keep up with my prescribed whole-foods diet and still plan lessons, call parents, and grade papers?

Of course, I prayed continually about this. With my mouth, I repeatedly surrendered my will to God’s, yet my heart didn’t want to let go of my dream of teaching, which I felt certain was my calling. Hot tears rained on the carpet in my prayer closet many nights as I asked God for clear direction. Echoing my sister Amy’s prayers for me, I asked for the right door to open and the rest of the doors to close. 

The door to substitute teaching in my old school closed with a slam that was practically audible. The district declined my application, with a form letter that informed me they’d chosen “other applicants who were more qualified for the position.” More qualified than a certified, experienced teacher? I was flabbergasted because I know how short-handed the district is, but peace pervaded my heart as I recognized this answer to my prayers. At that point, I could have applied at the closer school districts where I’d planned to seek a permanent position next school year, but I hesitated. This felt like a sign. Maybe God had other plans for me.

During  a Thursday prayer meeting at my Spanish speaking church, Palabra Viva, I sobbed as I knelt at the altar. “Lord, please help me let go of everything… my hopes, my dreams, my past. Help me believe that I can serve you anywhere. If you can use me, I am yours. But please heal this hurt in my heart. I trust you. I know your plans for me are perfect. Please open the right door for me. Show me the path you have chosen for me.”

I also requested prayer about my job search. “Necesito un trabajo,” I said simply. “I need a job.”

The next day, a Friday, I updated my resume, moving the instructional design experience to the top of the Work Experience section. I meticulously detailed all of my former instructional design duties and pared down the sections for my teaching jobs.

Around 4:15, I updated the career objective in my online job app, Indeed, and then uploaded the new resume. Around 4:30, I applied for my first job, as an instructional designer of online courses for reading teachers. The job description and bullet points for the ideal candidate could have been culled from my own resume: experience as a classroom teacher (5 years preferred; that is my total number), experience as an instructional designer (I have 10 years), knowledge of second language acquisition preferred (I have recently become almost fluent in Spanish). 

To make the job even more appropriate for me, the subject matter would be the science of reading, with a focus on phonics. My five years’ experience were all in a reading classroom, and I’d tutored my low readers in phonics the previous year. Still, as I clicked the Apply button, I prayed, “Lord, help me not to get my hopes up. This job seems perfect, and the pay range is wonderful, but I know your idea of perfect is not the same as mine. Only you know the job that is best for me.”

At 8:53 on Monday morning, fewer than 72 hours after I’d applied, I received an email inviting me to apply on the internal website. My heart fluttered when I read the closing line: “We would love to review your qualifications further.” 

Just Plain Beautiful

Today on the way to the park, I reflected on the morning's sermon, centered on the resurrection of Lazarus. Pastor Stephen pointed out the difference between the resurrection of our bodies in the last day, and the resurrection of our spirits while we are alive. "You can have salvation and eternal life, but not be really alive," he explained.

"Father, what do you need to resurrect in me in 2020?" I whispered as I approached some Frisbee golfers intent on their game.

"Would you resurrect my joy? How about laughter? Oh, I love laughter. I really want to live this year, to enjoy that abundant life that you-"

At that moment, a butterfly captured my attention as it flitted across my path, practically grazing my knees. "Oh, Lord!" I breathed as I followed its progress.

How can I describe the beauty of this butterfly? There was nothing imposing about it, nothing flashy. It had a wingspan of perhaps one inch, and a simple wing structure similar to a moth's, with no intricate color patterns. Still, the flutters of solid yellow fading into the distance over the grass made me think of summer sun warm on my back.

"Oh, it's beautiful!" I exclaimed. "Thank you!"

An answering thought filled my mind. It's beautiful like you. Simple, not flashy. Just doing what God made it to do. Not worrying. Just riding on the breeze.

Tears filled my eyes. "Help me see myself as you do," I prayed. "I know I am beautiful to you. Just the way you made me."

I thought of the butterfly that a student drew for me last year, and the connection I made with a verse that God had given me during that difficult time: "Beloved, we are God's children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like Him, because we shall see him as He is." (1 John 3:2)

I thought of a caterpilar's metamorphosis, and my own, over my lifetime. "I can't wait to see you as you are, face to face," I said. "And then I will be so beautiful like you."

But then I whispered the words that flowed from my heart. "I am already beautiful, like that simple butterfly. I am not yet what I will be, but I'm beautiful just as I am."

A desire filled my heart then, to follow the butterfly's example by doing what God made me to do, what feels to me like flying. I wanted to write.

So there you go. Thank you for reading.