life

Life in Its Turn

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Elizabeth at one day old.

Elizabeth at one day old.

This time two years and one week ago, I was in the midst of labor. I was foggy and heavy from the pitocin and magnesium, ravenous for ice chips, had lost all sense of time, and was fit only to do as I was told at the time. When they told me to prop my legs up against husband and nurse and push, I did so, for two hours. I remember that it must have been so because the nurse on shift changed right before I started pushing. I had been in labor then for probably about 24 hours by the time I started pushing (looking back now, I think that I must have been in light labor when I left the doctor’s office the afternoon before because my back hurt all afternoon, evening, and through the night). Elizabeth’s head was close, close enough for the doctor to inform me that she had a head full of dark hair, but her heart-rate was dropping as I pushed and not recovering fast enough to make my doctor comfortable. So, at nine o’clock at night, I was wheeled into the OR for an emergency c-section.

As Elizabeth’s second birthday draws near, I cannot help but think about her birth. Not only hers but my own as well. Recently at the March of Dimes Celebration of Babies, Chris Pratt spoke of his son’s premature birth and I could not help but remember my own birth story.

I have inherited my mother’s disposition to preeclampsia and so was put on bed rest three weeks before Elizabeth was born. Mom had the problem with all three of her pregnancies, I the only one of which to survive. She was admitted to the hospital and placed on full bed rest at 24 weeks. She was allowed out of bed ONLY to go to the bathroom, which was maybe six steps from her bed. Based on her medical history, they knew that my sister Jodi was born at 24 weeks and her organs were not developed/matured enough to survive so the doctor’s aim was to get her to at least 30 weeks, at which he was sure I could survive.

I was born at 30 weeks, six weeks premature, 2 lbs. 6 ounces, and 11 inches long. So little that they had no baby clothing that would fit me so I was fitted with doll clothes Thankfully, though, I had no medical problems to hinder my growth and survival. Mom says that I was alert, active, and healthy. My only issue was that I was not big enough to go home, and I didn’t know how to feed so I was fed by a tube for the first few weeks. I was in the incubator for about two weeks, with a total of six weeks in hospital. At six weeks, I weighed 4.5 lbs and was discharged. I had checkups at the hospital’s special clinics for preemies until I was four and then given a clean bill of health and development.

There are times when I sit and reflect on my life, remembering the many times I have been told this story, called “miracle baby”. I dearly wish that my mother had not had to go through the heartbreak and pain that she did, but I am glad to be here, hale and hearty and whole. When I had Elizabeth was the only time I have ever been admitted to hospital since leaving it as an infant. I was blessed with the most wonderful doctor, nurses, anesthesiologist, everyone who took such excellent care of me during my pregnancy, labor, and recovery. Our doctor is moving out-of-town soon so, yesterday, Elizabeth and I went to say goodbye to her. In many ways, I owe that woman my life for her care of me. I am beyond grateful for her care for me and for Elizabeth over the past two and a half years.

Soon, I will celebrate Elizabeth’s 2nd birthday. My baby is now a little girl, full of life and vim and vigor. Smiley and creative. Strong-willed and stubborn. She is a gift, and I cannot wait to see how she grows further.

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Some of my baby clothes that my mother displayed at the shower she threw for me.

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Some of my baby clothes that my mother displayed at the shower she threw for me.

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Some of my baby clothes that my mother displayed at the shower she threw for me.

Looking Back at Christmas

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This coming weekend, I will be presenting a program at my church’s Ladies’ Christmas Breakfast and Cookie Exchange. I am presenting on Christmas traditions in the Cayman Islands, where I grew up, with the help of my mother. That’s another big thing about Saturday: my mother, my mother-in-law, AND my daughter will be there. I also haven’t presented or anything of the like since I resigned from teaching in 2013, so I’m more than a little nervous.

There are several Christmas “traditions” that I remember fondly from growing up. One of them was going to tour the lit and decorated yards of the wealthier homes on the south side of the island. These folks went ALL OUT. They lit every tree and bush in the garden, had the animatronics displays out, sometimes even Santa himself there for the little ones to take pictures with. I really enjoyed it, as there would always be Christmas music playing and it felt a bit magical to me, especially when I was little. As I became a teenager, our youth group from church would head out there on the last Friday before Christmas. The folks who owned these homes knew most of us – our families – pretty well and, jokingly, one year they said that, if we were going to tour their yards, we should pay for it somehow. What they requested in recompense was for us to sing. Most of us in the youth group were also in the choir at school and, with places taken and a few pitches given, we launched into our Christmas program repertoire. Soon, most of the people touring the property had gathered to hear the voices that carried on the air across the yard. We enjoyed it and the owners were delighted. It was one of our favorite things to do on the bus: sing our choir pieces a capella. It kept us honest and in practice with the pieces that we had to memorize and perform. Plus, it was a heck of a lot of fun to just sing with my friends.

Another tradition was Christmas Eve dinner. On Christmas Eve, my parents and I would dress up and go out to a nice restaurant for dinner, usually my choice. Usually, it was just us, though sometimes it included some family friends. Eventually, for a few years, that dinner included me, my parents, my high school teacher (one of my favorite people in the world), her husband, and her son. We would spend hours at dinner, talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. I recall one night, as we sat on the restaurant’s patio, watching the new moon course from one corner of the sky to the next in the time of our dinner together. I remember wearing a particular dress to one of these dinners and, before bed that night, I received an email from my teacher’s son, telling me that I looked beautiful in my dress. I must admit, that had me chuffed for the rest of the season.

After dinner, the remainder of Christmas Eve was often spent with me and my mother in the darkened living room, “Carpenters Christmas Portrait” playing on the stereo, enjoying the glow of the Christmas tree. Some years, I would open one present on Christmas Eve, some years not. But I always ended Christmas Eve in front of the tree, ready for that flutter of anticipation in my heart come morning. It’s gotten milder as I have grown older, of course, but it’s still there and it’s nice.

The Darndest Things

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This evening, when my husband arrived home from work, one of the first things he asked me was, “Was there a blue plastic bag outside on our property today?” Odd question, yeah? But I told him, yes, I had noticed a blue plastic bag at the foot of our driveway this morning so, when I went to take out the trash, I skipped down to the end of the drive, scooped it up, and put it the trash hopper. Honestly, I thought it was some trash from Best Buy so I wanted to throw it away before it blew away made a mess on our street.

Well, my husband went directly to the trash hopper and retrieved the aforementioned item. Bringing it into the house, I heard him say, “I thought so.” It turns out that those bags held recruiting flyers for a pretty well-known supremacist group. He then proceeded to explain that he had seen them in front of houses up and down the street as he had driven home today and was concerned to NOT see one in front of ours. He told me that what had worried him was that, if one of those flyers HAD NOT shown up in front of our house, that might mean that whoever was passing them out knows who lives here. Obviously, that wasn’t the case so I did my best to set his mind at ease. It had been left; I had moved it without knowing at all what it was.

To be clear, he isn’t scared; at the same time, though, he doesn’t want me to be scared or to fear for my safety or our daughter’s. I told him the truth: the idea of these people has affected me more through movie depictions than in real life. I do, however, know that they exist and that the attitude is harmful, damaging, painful, and has even driven behavior that has been fatal to others. I cannot fathom nor understand the need to hate someone or think them less because of their skin tone, beliefs, heritage, or political views. But I will not be afraid. This is my home. I have been in this state for fourteen years, this area for ten. This is my home. I will not be afraid. I wish no harm or ill on anyone and I will help those who need it however I may. But I will not be afraid.

I will teach my girl to be proud and strong and brave, to follow in a long line of steadfast Hoosier, Scots Irish, German, Scottish, Caymanian, and Bajan women in her family, on both sides. Her bloodline is wide and vast and we will teach her to rejoice in it. I want to teach her as Cinderella’s mother teaches her in Disney’s new depiction: “Have courage and be kind.”

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 18: Cancellation’s Freedom

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When I was teaching, you know what one of my favorite things was? Snow days. Yes, I know, snow days are a pain in the rear – the adjusting plans, the getting behind, the making them up, etc. Yes, an absolute pain, but there was something special to them, too.

When I first started teaching right after we got married, my in-laws were also teaching. In fact, they and Ben worked at the same school, in a different corporation than me. So, on the rare times that we had snow days off together, it was a treat. If the snow was high and deep, Ben and I often would decide that we weren’t going anywhere. More often than not, the phone would ring and it would be Ben’s dad, asking us if we wanted to go get breakfast. Half an hour later, Dad’s big old Dodge Ram would pull into the driveway, we’d pile in, and the four of us would venture out into the snowy world in search of a yummy breakfast. I loved those days. The world bright and clean and free. It was the thrilling joy of an unexpected holiday and the happiness of time spent with the family.

Yeah, I loved snow days.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 15: Touchy-Feely

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Hi! I’m Mel and I like warm hugs! And squeezes. And being lifted off my feet. Oh, and I love cuddles and snuggles, and having my hair stroked, and my shoulders rubbed, and my back scratched, and my feet massaged. Honestly, I just like physical affection and touch. There are times and situations when I don’t wish to be touched, yes. But more often than not, if I am comfortable with you, I’m happy to give and receive physical affection. A hug is my go-to for comfort, gripping someone’s arm or hand my way of showing support, stroking their hair a playful gesture.

Honestly, the fact that I am “touchy-feely” (I do believe that is the technical term) at all still comes as a bit of a surprise to me. My family on the whole is not very touchy-feely, unless it was the moms with their own children. My friends and I weren’t very touchy, unless we were doing each other’s hair. In fact, hugging between us girls didn’t really even come into being until we were in high school and, even then, I wasn’t much of one to express my affection physically. It wasn’t until I got into college that I connected with the side of me that likes to give and receive physical affection. It was mainly with my female friends, of course, but I also learned not to be afraid of hugging my male friends either. Several thousand miles and a whole country away from home, the caring hugs and hair-strokes of my friends became a supreme comfort to me in times when my heart was low. An arm thrown around my shoulders during a walk produced a smile. A hand slipping into mine amidst difficult words gave me strength.

Some of my happiest, most content times have been with those I care about. One of my best friends, my very first memory of her is of me standing behind her while she and my husband (then boyfriend) and some of their friends were playing a session “Changeling: The Dreaming” (a tabletop game). As I stood behind her and observed the game, I played with her hair. I remember these luxuriant, thick, silky red locks pouring through my fingers as I just enjoyed their weight. I remember asking her several times if it was OK for me to be touching her and she told me, yes, that she was enjoying it very much. Things like that I remember. I remember the way that people hug. Hugs are like fingerprints. I would dare say that there are several people I would know by their hugs alone. The way their arms feel, the way they squeeze me, the sound that rumbles in their chest when they do. Like loops and whorls and arches, each a unique mixture.

Today, my daughter stood up from having her diaper changed and leaned into me for a hug, which I happily gave. I held her a good long time, her head on my shoulder and my chin rested on hers, and I just breathed and marveled at the comfort that I received from such a little body and such a simple action as touch.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 2: The Weight of Silence

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Break_The_Silence_by_shutteIn Much Ado About Nothing, William Shakespeare touts silence as “the perfectest herald of joy” (Act II, Scene 1). And I would agree. There are moments that strike us speechless, unable to find the words to express just how happy, ecstatic, or joyful we are. However, I would dare to pose that the opposite is also true. Silence can also be the fiercest vehicle of despair. Silence can fill our ears, stab at our hearts, and wound our very souls.

That conversation that is ignored.

The letter/text/email that is never answered.

The invitation that is never accepted or extended.

The relationship/friendship that is never tended to.

The prayers that never seem to be answered.

The dreams that aren’t acknowledged.

The questions that are never answered.

The efforts that are not acknowledged

These silences are sharp and painful, the type that slice past our defenses and heap stones inside our chests. Everyone has experienced it at one time and in one form or another, and I have yet to find someone who doesn’t consider it one of the worst feelings/experiences in the world. No doubt about it, though, sometimes silence is…well, it’s just easier. Isolation and silence can protect us, keep us safe from rejection by keeping us from reaching out and putting ourselves in a vulnerable place. Silencing our voice can prevent discord, disharmony, and confrontation. Silence keeps our secrets, our weaknesses, our pains, our hearts from being revealed, judged, compared, thought foolish, stupid, or even just from being disagreed with too vehemently.

Silence may feel safer, yes, but, in the other hand, it can be soul-crushing. Silence in response to our putting ourselves out there, to stepping out in faith, to the putting forth of effort in whatever situation it may be, can breed doubt, hurt, and far worse, if we let it. Silence can fill our minds with conjectures, our imaginings in place of the truth that we do not know and cannot expect to learn. Ofttimes, those thoughts, worries, and conjectures are far worse than what the truth might actually be, but those are the stones that are weighted into our chests and press on our hearts. Sometimes, though, silence is our cue to step back, to let go. But that can be just as difficult and heartbreaking. Letting go can feel suspiciously like giving up, which no one likes to admit to. I certainly don’t. But the other option is to give and reach until we give out or break.

I do not have a remedy for this. No magical words to make it better or easier. I haven’t figured anything out. Emotions and feelings cannot be cordoned off, magicked away, though they can be understood, commiserated, sympathized, and empathized with. Whether you choose to step forward or back is up to you. You may gain, or you may lose. Your way out of the silence is your way, no one else’s. I hope that you find it, and that it is good.

Reflection: Unglued Devotional by Lysa TerKeurst

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“My Creative Best” – page 132

“A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones.” – Proverbs 14:30

“We get empty when we park our minds on comparison thoughts and wallow in them. […] No jealous thought is ever life-giving. Wallowing in jealous thoughts actually leads to death. Death of contentment. Death of friendships. Death of peace. And certainly death of joy.” – page 133

I really appreciate Lysa’s take on jealousy. Jealousy can cause emptiness in my soul through wanting “it” – whatever I think will make me happy or satisfied at the time – and when others get “it”, it causes my heart to hurt, which can easily lead me into a trap of jealousy. In response to jealousy, though, Lysa notes Galatians 6:4-5, which admonishes:

“Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else, for each one should carry their own load.”

This means that I should focus on reasons to celebrate what I have and what I am doing right (page 134, emphasis added). God has a creative best for my life, a plan for me to accomplish. I don’t want to waste my life and energy wishing for someone’s else’s life or blessings. As Lysa reminds herself when she feels jealous, I am not equipped to handle the good and bad of someone else’s life, and it is always a package deal with both. My life is what I have been equipped to handle. “All the things I have and don’t have are what make up the unique load I have been assigned. (page 135)”

 

All That Needs Said

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For the past few weeks, I have been working on an article, amidst a great deal of drama, anger, tears, etc. (yes, even my own), concerning my chosen subject. A public, much-discussed, and often-contentious subject. You know me, I don’t soapbox except once in a blue moon, and there are so many voices and so many soapboxes in this conversation that I am unsure anymore as to where my voice fits in. And maybe it doesn’t or it’s unnecessary to the public at large. I don’t know. All I know is that this week has felt terrible. I feel surrounded and beset by negative emotion – on TV, on the radio, on Facebook, in articles that I read, etc. And as I read back over my own article draft, even though it was not my intent, it feels angry and condemning in its own right. And that is not the emotion I want to contribute to. It’s made my heart exceedingly heavy, wrung out a good many tears, and destroyed any confidence or bravery I had in posting this article or sending it off to a site. It’s even been difficult to put pen to paper at all this week, regardless of what it may be – journaling, stories, or even just letters. I’ve thought and I’ve prayed but it’s been difficult, I won’t lie about that.

A few nights ago, as I talked with my husband about it, he gave me a suggestion: “You do not have to solve the issue, Mel. Maybe the best thing you can do for people right now is to just tell them you love them. That is the point, right?”

And I thought about it and slept on it. (Probably dreamt about it, too.) And thought about it some more.

So here it is.

To my friends, family, and those in my life, regardless of race, color, creed, sexuality, faith, belief, or philosophy:

I want you to know, today and every day, that I love you and thank God for you.

That’s it.

I love you.

We may not agree on any number of things but that doesn’t change this fact. I love you. I am thankful for you.

Always, Mel

I may choose to publish that article some day but, right now, I think this is all that I need to say.

I love you. You are loved. And don’t you forget it.

 

It Won’t Cost Much…Just Your Voice.

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Sometimes it isn’t easy to speak up. No, make that “a lot of the time”. Not about the little things like where to eat for dinner or whether or not that color suits my husband. What I am talking about are issues of substance, contentious issues, delicate issues, emotional issues, volatile issues, heart-heavy issues. In those cases, it’s really hard for me to speak up. Those in my life know that I take my time with my words. I am not a person to shoot from the hip in an argument or a fight. It is almost a physical impossibility for me, actually. My throat closes, my chest burns, and I just…can’t. Sometimes I wish I could. I wish I could yell and scream and call people out but that is not the way I was built. Often, the words that I wanted for that situation do not come until later and, then, the moment has passed and I am unwilling to dredge up uncomfortableness again in order to make my point. And, often, I wonder if that’s not the best thing, but that is a whole other thought process. When I do have enough of a fire in my belly or conviction to speak up – especially when my opinion or view stands in opposition to people close to me – I worry. I worry about what people will think. I sit and churn in fear that something is going to pop up on my computer, on my phone, in my mailbox, with someone ripping me apart for speaking honestly of my mind or from my heart. And that fear can ruin an entire day or even days on end.

While this might not necessarily fall under lalophobia or might even be more accurately described as a fear of rejection, it is something that I deal with constantly. I am a quiet person by nature, not someone who stands tall and shouts at the world or even those around, particularly on volatile subjects, whether they be personal, political, etc. But, sometimes, there are things that I need to say. I check my words against my own judgement, as well as those of trusted family and friends if necessary. Nothing I say or write is said lightly or without consideration. Sometimes I’m wrong and I admit it. But the fear is always there – the fear of being lambasted for having an opinion, for seeing things differently or feeling differently than others. It might not make sense to some or may sound silly to others but there it is. I go out of my way to promote peace and harmony within my community of life, as much as I may, sometimes at the cost of my own voice. And, most of the time, I count the cost as worth it. There are some battles that just do not need to be fought. However, I’m trying to be bolder, and, while that might not mean necessarily conquering this fear (fear can promote caution, after all), admitting to it is a start. At least, that is my hope. I do not want to sacrifice my voice when it is important to me.

So here it is. Sometimes I do not speak up for myself. It is not because I do not have an opinion, point of view, or heart to speak of, no. When I do not speak up, it is because I am afraid. I am afraid that it will ruin your opinion of me. I am afraid that you will be angry. I am afraid that my honesty will backfire and cause pain or hurt. So I stay silent a great deal of the time, silent and thinking.

I want to balance my honesty with wisdom. I want to continue to listen to my gut when it tells me to speak but to temper my words spoken with gentleness and respect. There are hundreds upon thousands of voices (and far more) shouting and clamoring to be heard for whatever reason, on whatever issue, with whatever emotion or feeling – in big arenas and small. Words are one of the most powerful entities in existence, and I want to use them wisely.

Pretty Unmentionables Day

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There are days that just require pretty underthings. I don’t know how much you think on or even agree with this but it is true for me, at least. There are days when I feel so down about my body (even though I am working hard to be happy with it again) that the only thing that makes me feel better about the physical me is wearing pretty underwear. Today, it was a lacy navy bra from Victoria’s Secret and a lovely, cheeky pair of purple panties with navy-blue hearts and trimmed with matching lace. One of those underwear sets that, though you don’t buy them together, end up being just perfect for each other and for you. Today was a necessary Pretty Unmentionables Day, though, of course, now I’ve mentioned them. Oops!

Honestly, I am unhappy with my body right now. I don’t like the way I look from sternum to thigh. And it bothers me greatly because, just one month ago, I thought I looked quite good and I felt all around. I am not sure what in my routine has changed since then but, yeah, not happy right now. So it’s time to step up the working out and going back to watching what I eat more carefully. I want to be healthy and strong, and feel good about myself, but, right now, I don’t. So that needs to change, but change doesn’t happen in 24 hours. So I needed a Pretty Unmentionables Day.

There come times when we all just need a _______ Day. That day where we do what we can to feel better or to give negative feelings and attitudes the middle finger and go on with our day in spite of them. A dear friend of mine has Pretty Lipstick Day when she’s feeling down and I have participated in that a few times. Uniting is good, especially when it is a union in defiance of negativity. I didn’t feel great about myself today as I dressed but, all day, I remembered that underneath my jeans and top, though no one else saw (OK, so I showed the husband when he came home), I was wearing pretty, lacy underthings. Underthings that made me feel alluring and, in my eyes, made me look quite good, which was the entire point.

Don’t be afraid to take your ___________ Day, whatever it might be that you do for yourself and just for yourself. It can be something obvious or something that you hold as just your own little secret. We all need those days every now and again, the days when we pick ourselves up, brush off, and decide that there will be at least one bright spot in our minds and hearts that day. And it can still do us good, even if no one else knows about it.