When Your Bridge is Out

I'm broken and torn and gashed wide, and the lifeblood in me feels as though it is oozing out around me.  I no longer have the strength to patch myself up and walk on with a cane, I rather feel the urge to lie down and weep. To breathe deep and long, and to sit with the sadness that this is hard. I know my blog is often pensive and vulnerable, but in my real life I spend most of it looking to the good, hoping for the best, trusting in the goodness of God and relying on copious amounts of grace.  But there is something to be said for lying down. For taking a moment, or a thousand, to sit with the reality that this is so far beyond me that I will never be able to make it pretty, or predictable or comfortable for everyone around me.  And yet, in my moments where I still had to stand today, to get kids out of church, and bags packed up, and tears were falling because nothing I could do would keep them in any longer, the woman who sat at the end of our row painfully made her way towards me, and in her aged wisdom, and body twisted by arthritis, she bent down into my mess and whispered "Are they all yours?" "Yes." I managed to say.  "They are so beautiful. And so well behaved. You must be a wonderful mother."  She looked right into my spilling eyes, and held me there in her heart.  Her grace poured over me like oil, and I bent my head under the weight of it.  She patted my shoulder as she rose, and hobbled away.  I was broken in the wake of her offering.

You see, my kids hadn't been well behaved.  Tucker hadn't had his medicine this morning, and while he wasn't disobedient, he wasn't quiet either.  When he hasn't taken his medicine, his body defies any stillness in him, and he rocks and twists, and hits himself.  He is full of smiles, but it is not quiet and it is not calm.  Certainly not the behavior most people expect to see in church.
Ivy was right beside him drawing with him in an old bible coloring book and the two of them exclaimed over the images as they colored together.  No amount of stern looks and finger pressed to my lips brought her from noise to whisper.  The woman in front of Tucker moved her chair forward, and I knew that my son whose brain fires differently than others had probably banged into her chair one too many times.  The two of them gasped and exclaimed loudly as the scenes shown from the Papua New Guinea missionary splashed across the screen, and our row in that church today wasn't still, peaceful, or quiet.  As we moved into communion, I was in tears.  I no longer care what people think of my children or my parenting, but I don't want to frustrate others who are trying to listen to what is being said. I sat with my head tipped up and eyes closed and tears poured and I tried to find the grace in the moment.  I was jarred by Tucker who had spilled his cup, and I longed to lie down and weep.  The truth is that none of the things that happened today were the struggle; the struggle is the daily pouring out of me with little room for replenishment as I try hard to parent alone. The struggle is the continual waves of feelings of inadequacy and failing, and in those moments at church, I had no more strength to push back against the reality.  I was breaking, and the graceful woman whose body told a story of pain, reached out her heart of love to help me stand for a moment longer.  The beauty in that has seared my heart.
I'm grateful that in a moment where I was at the end of me, another woman stepped in to offer me a bridge. A way out of the despair that was closing in and threatening to consume me today.
Know that those things matter. Please know that your words to a tender heart, to a broken soul, they count- either for pain or for healing.  Know that you have power to build bridges or throw stones. I'm so incredibly thankful that today gave me a friend with a bridge instead of a crowd holding rocks. It matters.

Slipping Sand

Parenting is one of the most challenging jobs in the world.  Part of the design is that usually you don't fully grasp the gravity of how challenging it is until you've already added another one or two or three to the brood.  Baby land and newborn land is a hazy place that is physically draining and punctuated by moments of incredible bliss, discovery and joy.
I've learned that parenting gets harder, not easier, but by the time you learn that, you're in deep, and head over heels in love with the multitude of small people who have joined your life.

Being a single parent makes everything that much harder.  It's a lot like scooping up large handfuls of sand and trying to hold on to as much as possible as some inevitably slips through the cracks between your fingers. The larger chunks stay, as do the shells, and rocks, but the silky smooth sand that can't be grasped falls steadily no matter how hard you clench your hands together and will it to stay put.  Working with your spouse is like having his hands under yours, to catch much of what you're spilling, and while he too will lose some, there is protection in knowing that where you are weak, he can cover you.  Single parenting means that those places you know you should be able to work on, change, address, those places you can see slipping through your fingers get dropped and so you desperately pray for grace to cover your weaknesses.

I have the awareness that chore charts, allowances, and nightly reading is important, but many times keeping peace, getting everyone fed, bathed and tucked in with prayers is a monumental task when I've already mowed someone else's lawn, cleaned someone else's house, edited photographs and tended to our own home.  I feel like a sponge that is needed for cleanup and yet cannot wipe up the spill because it is already completely saturated.
I can see how many single mothers completely fall apart.  Staying in bed, or turning to less than desirable activities with less than desirable companions.  Women who have little support, even less self confidence, and no good places to draw from can create the perfect storm for not just lost sand, but total annihilation of the handfuls they have tried to hold on to.  I have moments of anger, I have moments of self pity and frustration and even moments where I let my mind wander into the homes of friends where money is assumed, furniture came new from a store and not handed down or picked from a curb, homes where women feel safe, and children feel adored by both parents and wonder what that feels like… but I don't stay there long.  Wishing and dreaming and spending time wondering what might have been brings nothing but grief and sadness, and won't get me where I want to be.  I can see many places where my sand is sliding through my fingers, out of my control, but I take heart knowing my children are well loved, we are knit tightly into a community who long to see us succeed. I am doing the best I can and God's grace makes a way where there seems to be no way.  While I never would have written this story for myself or my children, I'm so proud of how we are adjusting, growing, and learning how to embrace the life we've been given. The sand that slips through is minimal in light of the beautiful shells that are staying behind.

Verdict? Not Guilty

If we are willing to listen, life is full of moments to teach us more about ourselves, more about the world around us, and hopefully even give us moments of revelation that can change our futures. 

I was honored with the opportunity to photograph a funeral for a fire chief in our area.  He was a Navy veteran, a beloved husband, father to two girls, and both a career and volunteer fireman. He poured his life out in service to others, and watching the honors unfold to remember him was an experience I won't quickly forget.
Funerals are one of my favorite things to photograph. As someone who loves when people connect in genuine, raw places, I have found funerals to be a place of intimate connection, and tender emotions, and gracious handling of the hearts of others.  While there is always pain involved, there is always much beauty too.  I love watching how the families are cared for, and how gracefully the lost one is respected.
Visitation for the funeral was the night before the funeral services. I had been invited to go and photograph it by the man who had hired me.   He hadn't given me any specifics, and I slipped carefully through the crowds to get images I hoped would touch the family for years to come. At one point I wedged into a back corner and grabbed some shots of friends honoring this great man at the side of his casket.  There were parts of the gleaming wood in my shots, but not any of the man resting inside.  I walked out into the lobby to catch my breath and was stopped by another photographer.  He was aggressive and prying and asked me questions from who I was, to who had hired me, and what kinds of shots I was taking.  He made sure to let me know how important he was and that his images taken on behalf of the Navy would be used for public consumption as well as being placed in our local paper. He told me to be sure to stay out of his shots the next day and reminded me again of his importatance.  I was completely bewildered and felt insignificant.  He then told me the family had told him no shots of the casket.  My face fell and my heart sank.  I mumbled that I had already taken some shots and that I never meant to offend anyone.  He told me to delete them.  He walked me through the very simple and elementary process of deleting off of my camera- as though I had no idea what I was doing.  I stood there dumbfounded and concerned I had overstepped my boundaries.  I managed to get away from him, but his prying and aggression with me had deflated my confidence and I wandered around the funeral home in a fog, worried I had somehow committed an unpardonable sin during an evening that was both intimate and precious.

When I climbed back into my car, now a trembling bundle of nerves, the man who had hired me (but who had to leave prior to my arriving at the visitation) texted to ensure I was ok. I texted back worriedly that I had been approached by the Naval photographer who told me to stay out of his shots, and told me to delete all of my casket images per the desire of the family.  The man who hired me to be there (who was a close personal friend of the family) simply texted back- They knew you would be there Heather.  Assurance. Importance. Inclusion. His simple words reminded me I had been sent there with the most important job- to work for the family.

The next morning I arrived early.  I began my work, with the frustrating nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I was somehow not good enough, or my work would be offensive.  Eventually the man who hired me found me and hugged me tightly to tell me how much my presence and my work meant to everyone. My guilt and shame was palpable and gnawing and so tumbled out as I told him how concerned I was about offending the family. He quickly put my fears to rest.  The aggressive photographer came up to the two of us, interrupting our conversation rudely, and began his barrage of questions to my friend.  My friend responded to him firmly but kindly and let him know that I was there to work on behalf of the family and could do whatever I pleased. And, to kindly stay out of my way.  I was elated.  I had been thinking since the night before that the family's desires trumped the Navy's guidelines any day, but I hadn't been bold enough to say it out loud.

A couple of days ago, it hit me.  Because of the way I was treated in my marriage, I have been conditioned to always take the posture of guilt and shame.  I had been approached by a man who had no business telling me how to do my job, and yet my immediate response to his out-of-line correction had been guilt.  My heart was grieved to realize that I have been so carefully trained to always take the blame that it is second nature in most every place in my life.  I had nothing to feel guilty about, nothing to apologize for, and yet I took on his annoyance, his threatened posture, and absorbed it into my heart as anxiety and worry and shame.  What an awful realization. How many times have I taken direct hits from poisonous arrows never meant for my heart because I've been trained that by my mere existence I am guilty?! How many times have I sat in unnecessary worry and anxiety because I didn't stand up for myself and speak out against the circumstances that had nothing to do with Heather?  How much time has been wasted in damaging shame because I took on the concerns of others when I had no business picking them up and packing them onto my back? My heart is torn at this realization, and yet I'm so thankful for the burst of clarity that pierced my heart the other day. I will be careful going forward to pass those feelings of guilt and shame through wisdom first before I choose to add them onto my own burden. I have so far to go in my healing process, and yet I'm so very grateful for the clarity that comes and brings with it lessons that can change my future.

Space for Us All

This morning wrapped up the class I've been helping lead this spring.  We finished up with a good talk filled with encouragement and topped it off with a brunch of shared dishes and shared hearts.

I was struck hard this morning as we dipped our toes into new waters of vulnerability and honesty.  One of the women in the group is more reserved. She's a grandmother whose children are long gone and finds herself in the place of caring for her aging and ill father. She bears weight that is heavy and yet she shows up each week and offers encouragement both in word and in deed.
She's quiet and thoughtful; kind and generous and loving.  As we poured into the subject of the morning which covered 'recycling our pain by sharing our stories with others', she peeled back the protective blankets over her heart and laid bare information she had allowed to seep in deep.  It was information that didn't resonate with the rest of us at all, and as she brought it out into the light, into the space of that room, she too began to see it was all lies that have kept her from truly embracing all she is created to be.
The other leader in our group is even more gregarious than I am. She is bouncy, light, fun, and energetic.  She knows no strangers, and she is readily vulnerable and transparent.  She is infectious in the best way and her extroversion draws people to her in droves.  The more reserved woman looked at my co-leader and said wistfully "I love people. But no one knows it. They all see me as solemn, or depressing, or reserved.  I pray often for more joy, but I just don't have it like you do."  I waited for her to finish laying down her burden before I spoke, but my heart was about to leap from my chest as I watched her pain and disappointment over the intrinsic makeup of who she is.  I started quietly and told her that I think joy doesn't always look like bouncy, laughing light. Sometimes joy is the steady calm that braces another in her circumstantial storm.  Sometimes joy can look like a strong hug that gives life to another and shares in her delight.  Sometimes joy is quiet and does the dishes for the fifth time in a day or hums softly while sweeping.  Other times joy is the small stretch of a smile that neither laughs nor bubbles, and yet rests in the peace of shared excitement.  Joy can be tired, and quiet, or light filled and bubbly, but joy as it exists is not inherently demonstrative.  It is an internal culture of living and being, not always an outward expression of excitement.  I looked into her and said, I see you as neither depressed or solemn. I see you as an introvert, and the women who need to hear the power of your story are the women who won't be comfortable sharing their stories in the presence of bouncy, bubbling light. Those women need steady hands and soft hearts, they need the safe space that your personality cultivates.  Those women who are overwhelmed by someone like me need someone like you to give them a place to share safely. If we were all bouncing off of the walls with no one to steady us, we would be wrecked.

Her eyes grew larger and softer as the other women chimed in to affirm her steady loyalty, her response to a crisis years ago that had been gracious and love-filled, her consistent demeanor and gracious quiet.  Here sat a woman now a grandmother, who had been lured to believe that due to childhood experiences she had somehow been molded and warped into something other than who she was put here to be.  Those of us in the room gave her back the gift of herself.  The beautiful amazing gift of individuality and the space to revel in it. To see that realization light into a woman's eyes, her skin, her soul, is a miracle to behold. And then, the finishing blow; to have another woman thank her for being so honest, so vulnerable, which allowed us to come in and speak truth over her- truth that has power to heal decades of hurt, rejection, and self-doubt.  Do you see? Do you see that when she found safe space and took a risk to share her struggle, that the women in the group pulled tight into a beautifully formed net to catch her and lift her into an atmosphere she never knew she could breathe in? We brought her tired and weary soul into space that gave her breath and life and truth, and it was evident in her response that the truth was setting her free. I get giddy with the thought that I am allowed to be part of this.  This healing and repairing craft of honesty and vulnerability in the safety of women.  I know not everyone has this, and it tears at my heart in that knowing.
Dear ones- If you haven't found places like this where simple acts of bravery become monumental acts of change, please; do not lose heart.  I'm leaning into my 40s, and am just finding this space, and part of the reality is I'm helping to create it.  My risky vulnerability is helping to make room for others, just as this sweet grandmother's did today.  While I would never want any of you to go pouring out your lifeblood into unsafe vessels, I do want to encourage you that with effort, work, time and prayer, groups of safe and life-giving women do exist- but they probably look nothing like you might expect.  Keep your eyes and hearts open to possibility and expect that you can see and be beautiful miracles.