Friday, February 15, 2013

A Prayer

There is a certain clarity that is occurring right now that is startling.

I am finding that on the days when I interact with my mom and with my dad, those are rough days.

On the days when I just push it away, even if I think about it, I don't have to carry it with me.

There is a cynicism and a paranoia that is overlaid with a bizarre forced, brittle optimism that they both live. I don't know how to relate to it, and my mind struggles away from it. Because there's no forgiveness in it.

It's no big secret that I believe in God. I'm the wife of a Presbyterian Minister who has always thought that all of his congregations should be a little more militant (read: less onward Christian Soldiers, and more Socialist Jesus). I was not raised Presbyterian, but thanks be to the Creator that John Calvin came into the Reformation, because I don't know how I would get religion if it wasn't for utter depravity, predestination, and Grace.

Grace is the sweetest, most remarkable gift that God ever gave to Creation. The ability to be utterly broken and questionably worthy but to still find wholeness.

I am a judgmental, self-indulgent, vindictive, harsh, unforgiving, waspish elitist. But then I am extended Grace and the knowledge that I was made for more and I am so overcome with that love that I want to give and to share it.

When I talk to my parents, I do not see that Grace extended to others. It's not that they aren't gracious and kind to those who are likewise to them, but they are so hesitant to extend Grace when other people are human.

It's the season of Lent, and I've been casting about for a discipline. I've already been on a diet since January 1 (5 pounds, woo-hoo!), so I pretty much already gave up a lot of stuff. But I realized that what I needed to focus on doing this Lent was to find and extend Grace, even when I'm weary, even when I can't think straight, even when I am full of anger because that is the only way I know how to stand on the edge of the pit to get someone else out. Otherwise, I'm just jumping down in there, too.

Amen.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Enough

Wrestling with the idea tonight that there cannot be enough that I will ever do.

 No matter what I do and offer, there will always be more that could be done, so there will never be enough.

There will only ever be what I am capable of doing and I have to remember to dwell in that place.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Respite

So yesterday I was all, "oh, me so angry, me so mad, grrrrrr, me need to go cry now"? Yeah, that was a lot about the fact that I was asking for presence from God and grace to put one foot in front of the other and wasn't feeling the love.

Then, last night when I couldn't sleep, I realized it was right in front of me all along and it was banging on my door in the form of someone who wanted to listen to me and help me carry this.

Bamm! Right there, between the eyes.

So, just living the moment of grace for as long as it lasts.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Identity

I am having a hard time finding my center.

For years I have labored under the understanding that I am a particular kind of person. That hasn't been a static person, and I have evolved what it means, but I have been able to define it, hone it, and encompass it.

I feel as lost now as I did when I was 20-something. I do not want all of this. I have this. But I do not want this.


My father-in-law has this rather brilliant theory (it might not be his, it might be someone else's, but he says it a lot) that parents and children establish patterns of behavior and being that they settle into when the child is an adolescent. They create scripts that they play out and repeat time and time again into adulthood.

Now I am stuck in a script that I cannot seem to re-write. I have spent a great deal of my adult life defining who I am by generally refusing to participate in the script. It is how I have exerted control for so long because I could and can see no other way to do it.

I do not want all of this.
I have this. But I do not want this.

I have struggled with respecting my mother for years as an emotional being. She is duplicitous with herself and I do not understand how the person I came out of can be that way. And I fear that it is inherent or that I may learn it, as I have learned other things from her that I have had to figure out how to unlearn.

I do not want all of this.
I have this. But I do not want this.

I want to run. I want to wake up tomorrow and not remember any of this. I want this to just be a hole in my memory, a fugue. Because the irony is, if I walk away I am not who I think I am, but when I stay and get involved, it changes me just as fundamentally into who I don't want to be.

Saturday, February 09, 2013

Square One

So, maybe you heard my mom went into the hospital a few weeks ago. Maybe you didn't. If you didn't, you probably missed my implosion into Swear like a Sailor mode on Facebook, which, let's face it, may be for the best.

But . . . I have moved into a new level of navel-gazing the last few weeks, and Facebook's required brevity (I know, right, "brevity"? Oh, you have no idea how long I can go on) isn't quite right for me right now. My level of snark has gotten, well, darker and weepier.

I have hit that place of life that most children go though: the part where you have to start trying to help care for your parents.

So this feels like a new level of the journey, a new misadventure for all of us, if you will, because today my kids got to watch me cry while I drove a car to see Grandma and then do it again when I drove home from Grandpa's.

I have a new, great job, and I do not want to fuck it up. But my head is such a mess with all of this family stuff that I tried to separate myself from a very long time ago. So, I need a place to put it, and, tag, you're it.

If you read this and you know me, please don't try to talk to me about this and don't try to email me about this and try to Facebook me about this. If you must, comment on here, but I just need it to be here, to live here, so I don't have to let it live other places.