is not an epidemic of health
but of heart.
It is the manifestation of the opinion;
the media of populism.
There is no progress,
no reprieve, no cure,
until we take responsibility for our outcast;
or in our own souls.
The trend of stocking up to avoid lack
only feeds the fear fashion.
We are all afraid of being found without,
but it is not material
it is spiritual.
This is the alone-a-virus.
DS (c) 03/16/20
I’ve never been one of those majorly popular girls but I did get chosen for the Homecoming Junior class princess in High School. I had a few really awesome close friends and a large group of kids I felt were good acquaintances back then. Once I got married I made friends pretty easily at church, with my children’s parents and with those I met at school functions. I’ve never really suffered from terribly low self-esteem even though I know my limitations, both physically and socially. At least until my two youngest girls became young adults.
What is up with the whole eye-rolling thing anyway? Why is it that anything I say now is either socially inept, boring, or only marginally factual? At what point did I get foot-in-mouth and OMG-Mom disease without knowing I even had the symptoms? Is it contagious? Did I get it from my own mother? Will it ever go away? Does it have any direct relation to my sudden realization that I’m suddenly gross sexually, can’t be trusted with secrets and can’t pull off anything that remotely hints at cleavage anymore?
I’m not in the least bit concerned that my own mom says things like “that’s cool” as she hits 78 but I remember being slightly embarrassed by it when she was 38 so I’m assuming this is their problem and not mine. Still I do find myself teary after a tongue-lashing of “Puh…leazzz…mom” and “Do you always have to talk for me?” (I talk for everyone, why should they be any different?) I try to chalk it up to peri-menopause but it’s really just a realization that I’m that loser mom that all teens create at some point in their lives.
The younger of these two girls turns 22 soon. Thank God my oldest is now 37. She’s no longer seeing me this way (as often) and is experiencing her own grief-stricken rejection as she kisses her boys in public. I wonder how my mother ever put up with us growing up.
Recently I bemoaned the fact to my mother that I couldn’t believe I had a child who was 37. She said, “You know what’s worse than having a daughter that’s 37?”
“No, Mom. What?”
“…Being the mother of a daughter who has a child that’s 37.”
Got me there.
We call 2014 – The Year of Pain. It is also the year we decided to be baptized. Isn’t everything supposed to be glorious when you decide to come back to God? I never expected death and devastation, trauma and pain to be a part of my pathway back. Yet there it was overwhelming me with pain and promising everything in return.
We started attending in December 2012. By December of the next year we were ready to move toward solidifying our relationship with God within a church community. We had been attending regularly and had just joined a small group that I was asked to lead. It was a privilege and an honor to be asked but we were told that since it was a couple’s group we were both required to be baptized and my husband had not been at an age of understanding. We were ready for this and looked forward to it. Then the year changed to 2014 and the world began collapsing.
In January one of my daughters, then 22, had to be hospitalized for something that can only be explained as a nervous breakdown. In February my sister, only 48 years old (two years younger than I am), passed away unexpectedly. In March our 23 year old son (my step-son), a recovering addict, began stealing and pawning valuables from our home and cashing thousands of dollars on our stolen checks. Our business took a nosedive and it was then I began grappling with depression.
My husband began to be absorbed by his son’s day-to-day life and that took it’s toll on us. In April we started writing our baptism script; the words that tell those baptizing you that you understand what you are doing and for what reason. I realized then that I was not completely over my frustrations with Christianity. It may have been due to the bouts of depression. As my husband finished his script I began arguing with someone about my own. By May I had decided to wait to be baptized, thus causing my husband to pull back, and we turned over the small group to someone else. Probably a wise decision in retrospect.
Holidays were horrible that year. Each one more uncomfortable than the last. On Fathers Day our son nodded off in addiction, in the middle of his dinner plate and I watched my husband go pale. This was destroying the family. I was in a major confusion funk. I doubted my life purpose, my ability to be a good parent, a solid wife, a practicing Christian, and an inspired business owner. I was expected to help others suffering with horrible life-choices but all I could see were the ones in my own home now.
My oldest son decided to marry his sweetheart that month. They lived on the other side of the states from us so travel would not be easy. The truth is I couldn’t do it; financially or emotionally. I thought my oldest son, always so understanding, and his fiance would understand. They did not. My son took it as a sign that I didn’t approve of his decision and they became bitter.
In July my step-son finally entered rehab but quickly came home when he was able. Much too quickly. He started up again almost immediately. At that point I wasn’t sure how much more the marriage could take either. In September he asked to spend the night. The next morning we found him on the bathroom floor. After performing CPR, following him to the hospital and sitting with him for 2 days he passed away and my depression became full blown.
All I could wonder is if people younger than me could die what in the world was the use of the rest of my life? Then I began to doubt how much of it I had left and determined there wasn’t enough time to care about anything anymore. My husband, dealing with his own sorrow and grief, struggled for normalcy. Our business, which had started to thrive, suddenly became difficult to keep up with. We were both exhausted, both trying to recover, and we both began making dumb mistakes and bad decisions.
I was not emotionally ready for either the news in October that ISIS was killing children or that I had a long-lost brother who insisted on getting to know me. It was a tight-rope every day. Breaking up dog fights between our huge German Shepherd and our son’s Pitt-Bull was also not an event we needed.
Needless to say, ending the year with the holidays, minus two very important people you love, has got to be the hardest way to say goodbye to the most difficult year of our lives. It felt like all the promises had been forgotten and only pain remained.
And yet, reviewing this horrible year I noted a very important thing; God had not forgotten us.
If it were not for the small group we joined, regardless of the direction it took, we would not have had the support we needed through the most turbulent year anyone could imagine. With our son’s tragedy came clarity in dealing with clients we could never have otherwise understood. His death unexpectedly brought our family closer too. We began to hold tightly to those things we appreciated about each other and to be more patient with the grief of loss we recognized.
And what about my questions and frustrations with Christianity? I am convinced that it was a very necessary part of my own personal growth. I believe if I had not been dealing with so many other things I might have glossed over this discomfort and pain and missed the very things that would bring me comfort and strengthen my faith at the end of that year.
God is good even when life is bad and He has a plan. Always easier to see in retrospect, we must learn to focus our eyes on the Father rather than on the events and people around us. We must first have faith that He can do all things, and then we must believe that he will do what is best for us.
My children are between the ages of 21 and 36 as I write this and I am still the one flying to see them, helping with college expenses, and sometimes feeding them when the paycheck doesn’t stretch far enough. My grandchildren are between the ages of 1 and 14 now but live in another state and my own parents are still alive but not able to travel so I’m still flying and checking in there also.
I am now part of the “Sandwich Generation” and more specifically, a Club Sandwich. But even if we’ve felt the pinch of living between the slices and are just bone weary, it is warming, in a way, to know you are dedicated to your family in all it’s forms.
What’s the Sandwich Generation?
The Sandwich Generation is people (usually in their 30s or 40s) who care for their aging parents while supporting their own children.
Traditional: those sandwiched between aging parents who need care and/or help and their own children.
Club Sandwich: those in their 50s or 60s sandwiched between aging parents, adult children and grandchildren, or those in their 30s and 40s, with young children, aging parents and grandparents.
Open Faced: anyone else involved in elder care.
We are all parents, at some stage of life, who teeter-totter through life. We want to be patient but also can’t wait to see our children grow up to become amazing adult contributors to society. We wistfully dream of where we want to go and what we want to do when we are not as necessary to everyone’s world so we can concentrate on our own.
So, as we barely have enough time to catch our breath between babies and the day our parents become the focus of our worry, we reach out. We take care of our families willingly and lovingly because we care so much but we become tired, discouraged and sometimes depressed. But we feel you! You are welcome here!!! We can all come here for support. Other moms; sisters of substance and full of experiences.
Whether you are a young mom or are part of the Sandwich Generation I hope you will find many ways to engage, find friends, learn new things that apply to all moms, and generally feel at home in your corner of the world. Thank you for spending time here!
It is one of the most joyful and lonely feelings I’ve ever had. I was one person in the sea of hundreds and though we were all focused on Jesus we were strangers lost in our own thoughts and personal salvation. The music begins, and all the voices raise, along with the hands. At once you are transported to the first rock concert you attended and your heart swells with the sound.
When I first attended North Point Community Church in Alpharetta, Georgia I was overwhelmed. If you have not attended a megachurch you may have never felt that sense of awe that seizes you the moment all of the lights, voices, and music blend into a cacophony of stimulation. I loved being present in this exciting mass of attendance, but my remote feeling didn’t go away until we joined a small group.
Our small group became more like our church than the church itself. That is not a criticism but is exactly what our Pastor, Andy Stanley, encourages us to focus on; circles rather than rows. We met once a week and when I was too tired to go my husband was always ready and vice-versa. This helped with the needling that came from a discouraged spirit or spiritual warfare, whichever was more prevalent on that night.
A few months later our world shifted in a series of blows; one of my daughters had a breakdown that put her in the hospital, my younger sister died, our business took a financial hit and then it became more apparent that our son was not able to fight the addiction he had been battling for almost 5 years.
When our son lay in the hospital, our pastor’s duties of running thousands precluded a personal visit to the hospital. The leader of our group and his wife, however, sat for hours with us. Group members brought us food and visited the waiting room holding our hands and praying with us. When he passed away a few days later they were the ones who stood closest to us those next few months, let us talk about what happened until we were sure there was nothing more we could have done.
Our small group stayed together for a little over 3 years. In that period a few couples left and a few joined and still, it was wonderful giving and learning from each of them. We would never forget that first experience with a small group, but now we could welcome in others who felt isolated by the awe-inspiring size of the church. We could do our part to build the bridge between mass devotion and personal worship, help others feel less unnoticed.
The last time our group got together was right before 2017 ended. Many said they would be busy, moving to another group, or not sure of their plans so we ended the group with promises of getting together for one last meeting, but it never happened. The holidays came, someone had surgery, someone else had family emergencies and in general, life happened.
My husband was the one who had surgery. In March, after seeing him look bored because going out was not a real option, I reached out to the group by email. It was an open invitation for game night, no plans, no real agenda, just a night together. We invited fourteen but planned for three or four because we knew everyone was so busy now. Twelve showed up and every one of those was from the small group that split up before the holidays!
We had a wonderful hyggelig evening and learned something. We had mistakenly thought that everyone decided to go separate ways because the group had reached its logical end. What we found that evening was that we missed being together. We missed the spiritual part of the group true, but more than that we missed the solidarity; the harmony of being with others we had walked through the fire and swam the oceans with. We missed being truly known.
Many say that attendance in a church is not necessary for personal salvation. I agree with this. However, being with others, being a part of something together, is a good recipe for having deeper relationships with others and I know this is something I want. Church is not a place and it never was intended to be. Church was envisioned as a community of souls who lean together into the moment, celebrate the small wins, comfort each other in the big losses and reach out to welcome in others lost from the comfort of being known. Being known and being loved because you are known (rather than despite it), is what God had in mind for all of us. It’s the way He loves us.
Romans 12:9-16 Love must be sincere. Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality. Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. Live in harmony with one another.
Published on Dec 15, 2017
My mother says this to me often. She and I are not of the same religion. Still I am grateful when I think of my name on their altar, where she and her group of friends, some who don’t even know me, bow their heads and plead for my cause.
My friend’s daughter, a Wiccan, says she hopes the Gods smile down on me and that she will send me good energy. I have only one God but I know He loves her enough to hear her plea for energy in my behalf.
My Catholic friend says she will light a candle for me. My son-in-law says, “Insha’Allah, If God wills it,” and then gets on his knees for me at his mosque. My Pentecostal friend says she will pray over me. My aunt says she will ask the elders of her church to lay their hands on me. I am touched by their concern despite the fact that I don’t practice my faith in the same way. My neighbor, who is agnostic simply says, “I’ll be thinking of you.” I’ll take that too.
Whether these people believe in the same God I do, or not, is beside the point. My God believes in them. It doesn’t matter if He is exactly who they think He is because the God I love cares for the compassionate requests of all of His children. And when they raise their voices to Him, in whatever religious place, ceremony, ritual or language they use, I know that His translation skills are universal. His is the ear of a patient father, who feels the worth of our reaching and hears the language of our hearts.
All prayer, all concentrated love and concern for others, counts in heaven.
Romans 8:26 ESV
More from the Bible about Praying for Each Other
“I desire then that in every place the men should pray, lifting holy hands without anger or quarreling;”
1 Timothy 2:8 ESV
“Again I say to you, if two of you agree on earth about anything they ask, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven.”
Matthew 18:19 ESV
“Therefore…pray for one another, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working.”
James 5:16 ESV
I’ve wanted so much to reach out every day this past week to tell all of my friends of color that, sure all lives matter…but for me…YOU matter. You are my friends and I hope you know that I hate how this all feels for you.
I know that despite my cultural openness I am still guilty of assuming and pre-judgement. I am openly admitting that so that, hopefully, you will forgive me. I am another victim of the books, movies, music and even cartoon portrayals of black men and women everywhere. In my heart I don’t see you that way but my mind is forever recording garbage. It is the shaping of misconception; like movies that make you not trust old bridges.
In every movie, that involves an old bridge, something bad happens when you cross it. Maybe if they filmed happier scenes on the bridge, more often, I wouldn’t be so sure something bad was going to happen when someone went across it. Nothing bad has ever happened to me on a bridge before and other than seeing some beautiful ones in pictures I’ve never actually seen anyone plummet through one. I have nothing to base my bridge anxiety on, except those movies; but I’m still unnerved by them. I think media influence can do that to you; make you feel emotions that you might not otherwise feel.
People of color, who know me, come to know quickly that I don’t judge others by their skin color but how do I express that to those who do not know me? I am always kind to everyone, I meet them with a handshake, a hug when appropriate, and look them in the eyes. I laugh with them in elevators and ask how their vacations are going when we’re out of the state. But truthfully, sometimes I am still afraid; afraid of offending you! So, I say nothing because I’m afraid to say the wrong thing.
I do see your color, I acknowledge it because it’s beautiful and it’s an important part of your life and culture, but I treat you with respect like every person I meet. Still, I trip on myself not refer to your skin color because I’m not sure if I should use the term African American or Black American or just black. I don’t tell you how beautiful your weave is or how jealous I am that you can wear the brilliant colors you’re wearing because I wonder if that feels like I am “trying too hard” even though I sincerely mean it. I want to say something in the summer time about my fear of blinding you with my neon white legs and how I wish I was that beautiful golden brown you are, but I stay silent because I am worried that you will think I’m being fake about it. I look in envy every time I see a large black woman wearing tight clothing because she is so much more secure in her body than I am in mine, but I wouldn’t say that out loud for fear that she might think that I was actually being condescending and not flattering.
Yes, I am aware of the differences in our skin colors but not in the way you think. More like in the way someone admires all the shades of blue in the sky at sunset. Yes, I’m sometimes afraid of you when we meet but not for the reason you believe. It’s usually because I’m wondering if I can smile at you and you will honestly believe I’m not “one of those” white people (insert whatever unkind thing you’ve heard about us). Yes, my eyes follow your children. But because I love children and find your children fun to watch or beautiful as teens growing into adulthood. You are not all the same. We are not all the same. We are not all thinking the same things.
Please don’t be frustrated with me for not knowing what to say. So much has happened in our family’s pasts to make it hard to know for sure how you will respond to me. I am not my ancestor but just like a new husband I am paying for your ex-husband’s sins until you get to know me better.
So why haven’t I said anything before this? Because I don’t know what to say. And I desperately want to say something. Each time I read Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s words, “In the end we remember…the silence of our friends,” I feel the responsibility of saying something I don’t have the right words to say.
What can I say to the people I love and care about (and to others I don’t even know as well) that coming from my white mouth, would not feel like phoniness to your black ears? How can I make you feel my heart when I say, “You matter to me!”, and that I die a little inside as I empathize with the injustices that you feel?
A couple of days ago I talked with a couple on the phone for almost an hour about helping them adopt a baby. I didn’t know until the end of the call that they were an African American couple. Yesterday we met with a single, black woman about adopting. We spent over an hour visiting because we had so much fun and so much in common. For some of us life goes on the same in both worlds. We meet, we laugh, we visit, we are touched by one another. The world does not define us or our relationships. This cloud exists only to darken what could have been an even more enjoyable relationship. And yet we each feel the impact as if the world is shaken in two.
And we, straddling the divide, look at that bridge and dare to cross it.