America's Greatness Depends on Us

I love where I live. I have more than an acre of land, a beautiful home, a great neighborhood and neighbors of all ages, races and cultures. I love the area. It's less than an hour south of DC (if you're lucky on 95S-ha!) and it is wildly diverse. My church has people of all socioeconomic standings, ages, colors and cultures. I feel safe here and I feel the level of overt racism isn't as thick as it is in other places of our nation.
But, I have felt the shift.
I felt it keenly when I stood in line with my neighbors as we waited to vote. I could feel the divide in ways I haven't felt since living in the rural deep south. I saw people of color looking to us with their unspoken questions- Will you stand with us? Will you vote against us? You're our neighbors, but do you really see us? I was pained. The quiet tension was broken when a young African American girl looked up at her mother and said "I'm so excited to be here!" The mom smiled down at her and I caught her eye. "I love that attitude. You're a good Mama for bringing her." The mother smiled back and we returned to our quiet thoughts. My face flamed. I wasn't excited to be there. I didn't take any of my children because I was ashamed of our choices. I had thought I was voting third party all the way up to the morning of the election. I changed my mind that morning when I decided I wanted Trump to lose more than anything else. I've never felt that way before. I'd never felt forced to vote against something instead of for something. But I couldn't darken the bubble beside his name and return to look into the eyes of so many people I love who are people of color. Immigrants. People who tirelessly battle mental illnesses. I made the choice to vote for Hillary as a stand against Trump.
My circle of friends and loved ones is multi-cultural and varied. It always has been, and I'm grateful for this as I know many white people don't share my experience. I had to vote for them.
I know my choice is surprising to many of those whom I love who have skin the color of mine. I have heard the reasoning, the desperation to explain why they chose him over her, and the ongoing talk of asking what God would have us do. None of those who I love who voted for him did it with celebration.

Let me be clear. I'm not a Hillary fan. I don't begin to pretend that we align on much of anything regarding political standing- but I was hyper aware that this wasn't an election where POC were championing Hillary as the perfect choice, rather the opportunity to reject Trump and his incessant hate from creeping into the oval office.
When I woke early on wednesday and checked my phone for the results, I was shocked. I sat up in bed and sobbed. I sobbed because I knew that many people I loved were feeling hated. As the last week has unfolded, my sadness has been confirmed.
Many of my friends who are POC have reached out to me. Grieved that blatant racism was ushered into office. Afraid for their families. Feeling rejected and disconnected from their communities of faith. I went to church on sunday, and couldn't help but notice that many of the regular faces were missing. POC had stayed home. As the texts and messages came in, I didn't have words of comfort to share. I listened, and as one of my dear friends shared her pain, I told her that the gift of hearing her heart was holy ground. I was honored that she allowed me to hold space in my heart for some of hers.

What's grieving to me is that as white people, we're still missing it. This wasn't an election about policy, or conservatives vs liberals. To POC, it was an election about awareness. Equality. Unity. About seeing them and their worth. About seeing ourselves inside of them. Humanity. About the opportunity for white america to open our arms and say we won't stand by and allow our next leader be someone who silences you, pushes you out, or sees you as worthless. We are equals and we want our leader to represent that all of us together is what truly makes America great. It was the moment when many POC collectively held their breath while waiting for us to see the expectation and anxiety in their eyes as they wondered if they are safe with us. And we failed. What is crushing is that in this monumental, horrendous election year we have come again to a deep divide. I don't think we white people saw how the gravity of his victory would affect so many of us. How his victory would sour after the political ads stopped and the realization that he really did win and oh my gosh, what have we done?!

Like so many others, I don't have answers. I am tired and weary of the ugliness this year has exposed. However, I've also been told by many of my friends of color that they feel the reality has been unveiled and while it has been painful, they also have resigned themselves to the realization that they know where they stand.
I guess my 'advice' to all of us would be this- We need to listen. Pay attention to things outside of our small circle of influence. We have much to learn, and we don't learn by talking and defending and justifying. We learn by studying. Listening. Making time to spend with people who have different life experiences than us. Hearing hard things we want to avoid but staying because ...love.
I'm not sure what the next four years will look like. But leaving it to one man and his staff to decide for us isn't an option I'm comfortable with. We have the opportunity to wake up and join our lives with others. We have the obligation to strive towards the greatness of America by working to ensure all Americans truly are treated equally as we have been created equally. If this awful election year can spur waves of powerful, lasting, healthy change in racial reconciliation- even as an act of rebellion-then not all was lost.

The Tension of Uncertainty

I'm living in the tension inherent to single motherhood. The struggle between wanting what's best for my children and the reality that what I may be able to provide might fall impossibly short of that desire.

I have been living on my own, without a man, for more than two years.  I have a college education that follows my name, but after being a SAHM for so many years, it is virtually useless.  With four children who need some level of daycare should I be in a more traditional 9-5 job, I have found that my only viable option to provide is to do it in a non-traditional role. I live in a very expensive area.  I live in a more rural part of the suburbs and apartments aren't on every corner. We have many townhouses in this county, but those often cost as much, if not more, than the single family homes found in traditional neighborhoods.

This is the second home we've lived in since we had to leave the military base so quickly back in 2012.
I had no job and was shell shocked from the news I had been given, and no idea how to begin to take care of my kids on my own.  As God often does, the path out and into new life began to illuminate one step at a time.  I was offered a place to rent by someone I was connected to in my church community.  It was about half of the more traditional rental homes (in size and cost) but it would house us.  My family came and helped me wade through 12 years of marriage and family 'stuff' and pack, and purge, and store everything so that I could move my family forward.  The military housing we had been in was 2000 sq feet with a three car garage, and we had managed to fill every corner of it.  The new home was about 800 sq feet with no added storage, and the change felt daunting.  Somehow, I managed to figure out what was necessary and what could wait, and we filled the cozy space with our sagging, broken hearts.  That small space proved to be a healing island as we bumbled into a new life together.  The tight space held us close, and I think we all drew comfort in the small rooms as we desperately needed to trust and depend on one another.

I babysat some through my time there and did odd jobs to start creating provision on my own.  Seven short months after we settled into that space it was time to move on and we were blessed to be rescued by the family I had been babysitting for.  We moved into their basement. It had a partial kitchen, and two much larger bedrooms than the ones we had been squeezed into before, and a gigantic yard to run in.  It also was about 1100 sq feet, and it felt like we were moving up in the world. The five of us brought our noise, our angry hearts and our stuff into the home of another family. I helped babysit their son throughout the next year and when they moved out, we were able to move into the whole house.  We were now stretched out into 5 bedrooms and 2500 sq feet. I finally exhaled.  I had no earthly idea how I would be able to pay the rent that was more than any house I'd ever lived in.  I was providing almost fully on my own as our child support is a small fraction of what the children need.  I was willing to do anything I needed to do to provide and keep them out of day care.  I mowed yards, cleaned houses, babysat, and worked as a photographer.  I sold more things that I discovered we no longer needed and prayed hard that God would see us and remember us. Somehow, since last summer, I have been able to take care of my family.  Some months brought checks in the mail from strangers or friends, some months brought unexpected work for me, some months were complete miracles, but here we are, going on 7 months since we took over the house and I am not behind on anything I am responsible for.  But change is at my doorstep again. The homeowners own two homes and have a large business, and selling this house is the best option for their family. The buying/selling season for real estate is coming in mere weeks, and so we are to be out of this house by the end of February.  I am struggling to find someone to rent to us because my income is so new.  I don't have years of rental history or work history to prove to them that I'm not a risk.  My good references could fill a book, but homeowners want a sure thing. A single mom with many part time jobs and four children does not look like a sure thing. It's the end of January, and I'm not sure yet where I will take my children.
These kinds of jagged places in life have a way of growing and challenging faith. I vacillate between feeling hopeful that I will again see miraculous provision, and utter despair when I absorb the feelings of inadequacy that hover over my heart looking for any entrance to bring decay to my faith.  Friends and family champion me with 'God's got this Heather!' and 'I'm praying for you girl!' And while both of those statements bring some comfort and truth, the reality is that my faith in God and love of who He is doesn't promise me a life without struggle. There are millions of moms who love God who are living with children in places that would make me want to curl up and die. There are many mothers whose love of their children and love of God wasn't enough to buffer their children from incredible heartache and pain, and yet, I still say… God is good.

I don't have a beautiful miraculous ending to this story.  March may find me in yet another basement of friends… filled with both relief at having a warm home, and anger that the life I thought I'd be living is so far from my reality that I can't even see it through the tears anymore.  I have full faith that my life story is still being written, and that it is beautiful, but as with many rich, full stories, there are often chapters that pull at the heart, and take the breath away… I just happen to be living inside of those chapters. I'm ready to see what's on the next page.

Fearless

Tomorrow is New Year's Eve.  The last day of 2014.  The wrapping up of this year and the preparation to welcome a new one.
I have spent many years as an anxious mess around New Years.  Fear would wrap itself around my heart and squeeze tight until I wanted nothing more than to go to bed and wake up sometime mid-February.  Beyond the flurry of resolutions and high hopes for a new year, new self, new life.
My fear was so thick, so real, so intense, that I hated this time of year. I would begin looking over the months behind us and then realize that one of these years I will face loss… one of these new years celebrations will mean that I leave behind a year that held someone I love and walk forward into a new year that won't hold that person inside of it.  I would struggle to exhale, knowing that someday, some year, loss will inevitably come.

2012 was the year loss came to my doorstep. The year I lost in grand proportions; the year I walked out of a year that held someone I loved and into a new year without him.  Two new year's eves later, I am here. Standing. Strong.  I bear scars and have lost some innocence I needed to shed.  My eyes are wide open to hurt that can strike harshly from the belly of one you called lover, and my heart is both flung wide open to beauty as well as guarded against anything that smells anything like what I've experienced before.  I've walked through the darkest forest of grief and come through into the dawn. I've hurt and bled and raged and numbed out and here I am.  I'm not afraid anymore.  I feel the fibers of my being pulled taut in strength, reverberating with the awareness that I can do hard things.  I can be slashed and bruised and torn, but not defeated.  I have the wide open awakening that life comes to each of us, but the places of darkness and wounding need not be the end of ourselves… in fact, I feel reborn, new, thankful and grateful to get to sift out the excess filth to uncover the beauty that was waiting for me underneath.  I feel the sun living in my chest, the full life that comes not from money, or an easy life, but from the deep knowing that come what may, I will be ok.  I can do this life.  I can take a beating and rise again. I am enjoying myself in ways never afforded to me inside of a relationship that was more than a little off kilter.  I am free to explore what it is that brings me joy, and the more light that pours inside of me spills out into my children.  I find my delight in their faces. They see my contentment and snuggle into that safety like a warm cocoon.  They have watched me navigate hurtful and difficult things and keep moving.  They are learning through my dark forest that pain isn't something to be afraid of, but to be stared down and plowed through.

This New Year's Eve I will stand in the light of the midnight moon and throw my arms open wide. I welcome 2015, knowing as a sage that it will bring brokenness as well as joy. It will hold confusion, sadness and hurt, but it will also be bursting with newness and opportunity and places to dive deeper into this life that was gifted to me.  I can't wait to unwrap it and savor what it holds.

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.

The Knife's Healing Work

Healing is a process and I'm at a weary place in mine.  My heart has hung ragged, bloodied and slashed, and I have taken the time to carefully pick up the flesh and hand it over to God and allow Him to begin to sew it back together.
But being open, being vulnerable, being ready to receive revelation of places of hurt and wounding, being honest and transparent .... is sometimes tiring work.
I lived a very long time in happy land.  I am, by nature, a happy, hyper and energetic person.  I like to have fun, I like to do, and I like to be moving and busy. Healing is slow work. Often still work.  Many times healing can look like nothing at all, and the desire and urge to jump up and move on to the next shiny thing can take over my head space and try to divert me from the healing path that I'm walking.

I have likened my journey to a car crash.  The day that everything came crashing down was the impact of the crash. I then had to be cut out of the wreckage, life flighted to help, triaged through the hospital, then stabilized.  Once I was stablized I had to be prepped for surgery and then endure a long surgical procedure.  I now see myself as being in post-op.  If you've ever had a lingering illness, or a surgery, you understand that during the healing process there are moments where you feel more energetic or stronger than you really are.  You are tempted to push yourself as you long to stretch your body and legs back into routines they have been used to. Often, you are forced back to bed where you concede that you might have rushed into activity too soon and more rest is necessary.  I am finding myself dipping my toes back into leadership roles, and into the primary parent role,  and while I feel I am moving carefully and slowly, there are times where my heart feels that it isn't strong enough yet, not healed up enough to endure the pressure of the job at hand.  Healing takes intention, attention, and effort.  I have to make the time to feed my physical body as well as my heart.  I have to be still... and with four needy, hurting children, that can often feel unattainable.

My knee-jerk reaction is to do more than I should, with frustration, and then numb the pain;  with food, or noise, or reading, or any of a million other things I can do other than sit with the struggle that swirls and swishes around me.  The hard thing to do is to be still. To asess how I am feeling, how I can respond, and to take my time in reacting.  To allow the new behavior I'm learning to take effect, to slowly stretch and build those muscles that have sat unused for so long.
I have discovered that I tend towards codependency and in that new realization, I'm having to learn to respond to people in new ways, and stop and think before I respond. It's all too easy for me to try and rescue people, or 'save' them from discomfort, and sacrifice chunks of myself all along the journey.
For now, as I do the still work of healing, I am giving myself permission to move slowly. To stop and rest. To make mistakes with the ever-present desire of forward motion. To refuse to punish myself for detours.  Maya Angelou says "When you know better, you do better."  I'm taking that to heart and running with it.  Each day I learn more... about myself, about how I operate with other people, where some of my weaknesses are, and how I tend to worry more about the feelings of others than my own.

Healing isn't sedentary. It's a slow, careful walk out of hurt and wounding.  It's intentional choice that can go against what your brain is telling you to do. It's the cautious tending to raw wounds that can be pulled open again and gently covering them with prayer, rest, and love so that instead of a long lasting slashed festering of flesh, the scar can begin to form.  It is grace and change and growing pains and doctor visits and time and rest and work.  As I continue to heal, I will next move into physical therapy; where what I'm learning about myself can begin to be put to work in a controlled environment.  I'm determined to do my work. I trust that as I keep growing and aging and moving through this earth journey that there will be more work to do, and I pray I can stay focused and close to the surgeon for any other procedures I need to have done.