Happy New Year! Welcome to the 20's! I'm actually pretty psyched for a return of some of the better parts of the roarin' 20s. (I love the Great Gatsby). My social media has been blowing up yesterday and today with posts about "new year, new me" and recaps of how great or mostly great the last year has been for them. I did a list of resolutions that I'd like to try to keep... 1) Find something that I can intentionally spend time doing with Lucas 2) Start cardio drumming again at least 3 times a week (first one tomorrow evening at 7) 3) Set and keep intentional prayer times each day at least twice a day 4) Study Spanish at least once a week [have to start somewhere] (first one-on-one lesson next Thursday) 5) Make intentional time to be with David. 6) Learn more about autism, become more of an advocate 7) Spend more time with my mom 8) Be more of an advocate for us in terms of sharing our adoption profile 9) Be reckleslessly and joyfully kind even in the face of adversity 10) regularly attend Lions Club meetings I know my resolutions are earth shattering or innovative. But, I like them, they are goals that matter to me. Where I really find myself struggling is the whole idea of "the year in review." Facebook keeps trying to give me a photo year in review, but since it uses profile pictures and I use old pictures as profile pics, it's a bit ridiculous. You see, 2019 was a tough year for me. It was the first full year without my dad. I still found myself going to call him on the holidays, or send him a message, or ask my mom about how he's doing. It's been interesting as I know the way grief works and that it's not the same for everyone and all that, but being in the midst of the grief has me critiquing the way in which I am grieving. So, that's a thing. Baby girl did not find her way to us this year which has been incredibly difficult. I really thought this was going to be the year that our little family became complete. Missing someone who isn't here yet, I've found, is almost as difficult as missing someone who'd not here anymore. Waiting for baby girl has been a test. It's a hard thing to grieve out loud because people want to be loving and helpful. "It'll be in God's time." "She's on her way." "It's just not the right time." are common phrases I've heard. And I know that they are all true. I get that this is going to be in God's time and that God's time is not my time, but I want to be angry about that... I want to be sad about that. Scripture is filled with people who were not patient waiters and God still worked in their lives. The Israelites grumbled the whole 40 years in the wilderness. Sarai mourned and gave up on the ability to have children to the point she laughed when it was prophesied. If God can handle their doubts and sorrow, surely God can handle my grief. I regularly come up with reasons why she isn't here, my personal favorite being that with Lucas's diagnosis of Autism and his difficulties with transitioning into Kindergarten, it would have been a difficult time to bring a new little one into the picture. Waiting for God to bring our new co-pastor to St. Luke's was another way I explained it to myself. It will make the way straighter if I had a co-pastor to step in during maternity leave. Yet, no matter how many really great statements I offer myself or am offered, it doesn't change the fact that my heart grieves and longs for the little one who isn't here yet. It's like being so close to finishing a puzzle but there is one piece that is missing and no matter what I do, I can't finish it, I have to wait for someone else to bring the piece to me. If you want to help us out and spread the word about our desire to adopt, share this link that goes to our adoption site. davidandrobyn-adopt.com If you're anything like me, you might be thinking "Ok Robyn, just shake yourself out of it." But, David has been working with me to be a little more gentle with myself. So, I looked back at my year again and what I saw was that there were more things - both big and little - that contributed to this feeling of crawling across the calendar into a new year. As I mentioned above, our (almost) 6 year old Lucas was diagnosed with autism. That has been a hard and exhausting journey. I am not unfamiliar with autism. I had a pretty good sense of it. But it was like something out of an alternate reality when I was living with that new understanding of my son day in and day out. In case you're interested, there are many ways to berate, belittle, and blame yourself when your child gets this diagnosis. All of which are ridiculous. Also, it's even to feel like the world is ending. And, well, it kind of is. The world that I knew as a mom, as a working mom, has changed drastically in the last year. I've always been a schedule oriented person but with Lucas it has had to go to a whole new level. There are so... so.... so many doctors appointments. There was his struggle to adapt to Kindergarten - multiple times having to go and pick him up because it was just not working. I got to know the ISD staff really well. And I am super grateful for them. They have been incredible people and if you have a child with special needs. do not hesitate to get to know your ISD staff because they understand navigating the twists and turns and can be some of your biggest supports and champions. On top of the doctors and the calls to pick him up there were the multiple IEP meetings to figure out how to help him. My calendar ended up looking like a blob of color on my screen because David is in blue, I'm in pink, office is in purple, Lucas is in teal, babysitters are in green, and cursory stuff that I need to keep in mind are in yellow... I just wanted to cry at times. Sometimes I did. Sometimes I yelled and railed against the unfairness. I wrote and erased more emails than I have in the last 10 years. You may have noticed that part of my resolutions for the new year involve autism. I still have a lot to learn and I want to become and advocate, not just for us and for Lucas, but eventually for other parents/guardians who are trying to navigate the unpredictable waters of autism. Then, there were the little things that on their own aren't all that much, but cumulatively can be crushing. The phone calls to friends I meant to make and didn't. The visits I wanted to undertake and didn't. Little odd jobs around the house that I told myself could wait til the next time I had time. Missed bedtimes, words spoken in anger, disconnection between myself and loved ones... This world is not helping either. There are so many things... but I won't go there. This is not the post for that. Suffice it to say, there was a person I wanted to be at 12:01 am on January 1, 2019 and at 11:59 pm on December 31, 2019 I fully realized how much I'm not that person. (Ok, you got me, it was technically more like 10:18 pm when I told myself I was still a rock star and went to bed). Which is why the year in review thing is a struggle for me. Because I could easily recount the joys of the year. The weddings I presided over. The people I was able to interact with and help. The youth I was able to spend time with. Time with my son and my husband that I wouldn't trade for anything. All of that is there. But... my remembrances of those times always seem tinted by my realization of not being who I wanted to be at that time. Wanting to be healthier (but too lazy); wanting to have more time with loved ones (but deciding I'm too busy), wanting to be kinder, smarter, wiser, happier... That little voice in my head that likes to point out all the places I didn't quite make it. And it just feels like I start every new year with this little pile of stuff that whirls in with all the unmet expectations, the unrealized hopes, the scars and sorrows that are still there... and I always seem to feel like I'm entering each year a little more tired, a little slower, a little more weighed down by what I am carrying... So, instead of roaring into the 20's, I feel like I'm dragging myself in with a squeak. With all of this clattering around my head last night and this morning, I made a decision. "Happy New Year" is not going to be a simple pleasantry for me. "Welcome to 2020" won't be a simple greeting. I am going to come into this year with "Cheers to a new year" on my lips like a battle cry. I'm going to bring with me the things that need to come, I'm going to leave behind the things that will always be what they have been, and I'm going to be recklessly kind.
I am going to endeavor to be extravagantly kind to people I disagree with, with people I don't know, with people I know too well, and I'm going to be recklessly kind with myself. I am going to push myself to strive for my goals but I'm also going to forgive myself when I mess up. I am going to be unapologetic in my grief, both for my dad and for the baby girl I have yet to meet. The desire to embrace and live into the grief instead of trying to avoid it or deny it will be stronger this year. I want to be able to demonstrate healthy grief in a world that still struggles to understand or welcome it. 2020 isn't magically going to be the most amazing year. I understand that. There are going to be struggles and sorrows and pains and frustrations. But, I want it to be a year that when I reach December 31 I look back and realize that I did my best, that I approached difficult situations with kindness and peace, and that I forgave more than I held grudges. If I can look back on this year and say it's defining word is "grace" I will be happy. So, to all my friends out there who are entering this new year carrying a lot of the pains and sorrows and stresses of 2019, be gentle with yourself. And maybe join me in my battle cry: "Cheers to a new year!"
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For the last few weeks I have been struggling with anxiety about an approaching date. April 10, 2019. The first of my dad's birthdays he will spend in heaven. I know I'm anxious about it because ever since calendars switched over to April my eyes have sought out that date whenever I glance at a calendar. I've also noticed the other little signs. My leg bouncing incessantly - most of the time without my recognizing I'm doing it unless my leg suddenly seems tired. (Odd sensation, really). It was almost like an April fools joke. April 1 and my mind continually skips ahead to April 10. I have typical questions and thoughts around the date. How will I feel? What will it be like to not make a phone call to my dad to wish him a happy birthday and instead whisper it in a prayer to lift up. If you know me at all you know that I don't do well with the unknown. I want to know, I want to plan, I want to be able to have an idea where things are headed. So, going into this day is going to be tough simply because I don't know what to expect. Honestly, this wouldn't be as bad if it fell on, say a Monday, my day off, where I could either go be with my mom or at least stay at home and feel my feels. But, it's on a Wednesday. During Lent. April 10th this year will kick off with Bible study and wrap up with worship, so there are worse ways I could spend the day. I worry, though, about my emotions on the day. I do not like to be emotional in front of others, especially when working and "in pastor mode." So, hopefully my emotions will stay under control. Although, if I've learned anything, the likelihood of everything staying "under control" is unlikely. Not impossible but maybe not realistic. So, anyway, the other thing that happened on an April 10 is that it is my baptismal birthday. When my dad and mom talked about having me baptized, dad wanted it to be on his birthday. So those days are intrinsically linked. And it is kind of beautiful to me. It brings me some measure of comfort. I was just shy of 4 months old when I was baptized. I was a stinkin' cute baby if you ask me. That right there is my family. I, of course, and the cute baby in the white dress. It is from my baptism. Obviously I don't remember the day, but I love that I have a picture of it. That day is special. Even more so now. That day was my dad's birthday and my re-birth day. A re-birth into the promise of life eternal with Christ. A washing away of my old self and the day I was marked with the cross of Christ. I was baptized into the life, death and resurrection of Christ. On that day we were reminded of how the Word met the water, I was made a part of the family of Christ. Now, on April 10, 2019, I will be remembering my dad on the first birthday without him here. I will be reminded of the power of the grave and death in our lives. It will be a stark reminder to me of the brevity of this life and the passing of each breath. April 10 this year will be one that likely will have stuttered breaths, long deep breaths, and probably tears. And if the tears come, I will be thankful for them, because it will remind me of the other important message of April 10. They will remind me of the promises that are made to us by a loving God. The salty tears will force me to remember God's promise that the grave will not have the last say in life. I will be able to take solace in the knowledge that no grave is stronger than the promises of God. Now, that song is awesome. (The video... not so much... except for the hype-woman who I aspire to be one day). It is the reminder I need for the day that is to come. It is the reminder that even Christ faced death and the grave. Even he lay cold in the grave before he overcame. This was done out of love for us. It was done to open the way and free us so that we could live out his final command, to love one another. Although my dad has passed and I will miss him dearly on his birthday, I have the marvelous gift of that day being my baptismal birthday as well. It's a gift that let's me hear the truth that Jesus has overcome the grave and my dad is at rest. The above image is one I found as I was looking for pictures for this blog post and I fell in love with it. It's a way of seeing our last heartbeat move us through the way that was opened by Christ so that we might live again. That last heartbeat, as hard as it is, also speaks of the time to come when there will be no more crying, no more pain, no more sorrow. That last heartbeat is not the end; it is simply a pause before the next part of our life. The first image is nice as well. It incorporates the semi-colon in there, which I adore. Semi-colon tattoos became popular a few years back as a way to speak about suicide prevention. A semi-colon is used when an author could have chosen to end a sentence but didn't. In this case, the author is you and the sentence is your life. Don't place a period in your life when a semi-colon is all that is needed. Some days we just need a pause. The bad days, the hard days, they don't need to be a period in our sentence, but maybe they make us need to take a breath and a break. Therefore, a semi-colon. A breath and a pause in the rhythm of our lives. So, now with that little tangent completed... I'm still not looking forward to April 10. I would rather still have my dad with me than be finding the grace in a day where I'm remembering him. But, if I had to go through the day, I'm glad that I can go through it steeped in prayer, with dear people, and the unseen reminder of the cross that was marked on my forehead at my baptism. A reminder that tells me this is simply a breath, a pause, on the way to something greater. If you find yourself in a similar situation, or a difficult time, or a time that seems hopeless... know that I am there with you... and with me, remember to breathe... Just breathe. (And because this song has been stuck in my head since about halfway through writing this post.... enjoy "Breathe" by Johnny Diaz). ![]() In the early hours of August 31 my dad passed from this life to the church triumphant. He had been in the hospice unit less than 24 hours. I truly believe he was just ready to go. He had been battling a host of progressive illnesses for four years, he had been in the hospital a good three of those four years. Towards the end he was constantly fighting for air and he was in pain almost constantly. He never wanted to live that way. I think that when he finally made the decision to accept hospice care he finally was able to let go and rest. I will miss him something fierce. But, as I've mourned and missed him already, I realize that there is so much I learned from him. Dad teaching #1: Don't underestimate the value of silence If you ever met my dad you would know that he was not a man of many words. Never one for offering a lengthy discourse, his rule of thumb was that you should communicate what you need in the minimum number of words possible. This, of course, could be frustrating if you wanted to have a deep conversation or really plumb the depths of his feelings. My dad found a lot of rest and peace in quiet or just having music or the tv on as background noise. It allowed him to think through other things while he read the paper or had a cigarette. Silence was restorative to my dad. What it also did was made it so that when he did speak it meant people were more apt to listen because he did so infrequently. He loved John Wayne and Clint Eastwood and I believe he really adopted Theodore Roosevelt's theory of "speak softly and carry a big stick." Silence was not something to fear or avoid. It didn't mean that anything was lacking. Silence was just that, silence. Dad's teaching #2: Silence will often invite others to speak, you should listen. What a dad who loved silence taught me as a little girl was that my dad was always there to listen to me. For a young Robyn there was nothing more inviting than a listening ear. Because of his quiet nature I found myself regularly seeking him out to pour out all of my inner thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams and fears. He taught me how to shoot pool on the pool table in our basement. I was never very good but I was always asking him to go and shoot pool with me. Dad figured out pretty quickly that it wasn't me actually wanting to shoot pool. What that time meant for me was that he was going to turn on the radio to either country or oldies, he was going to roundly beat me at pool, and while all that was going on, I was going to tell him every thought that went through my mind. We would spend hours in the basement shooting pool. This was what we did when I needed to figure out something going on in my head. Whether it was if I had a crush on a boy at school (don't you know that dad's LOVE hearing about their daughter's love lives), or my complaints about classes, or when I couldn't figure out why my friend and I were having a fight. I could find endless ways to fill the silence my dad left for me. And this wasn't just empty chatter. While he never really gave advice, my dad did listen to what I was saying and he would ask questions or make simple statements, and that would be enough for me to start working through it on my own. Dad just seemed to know that what I needed more than sage advice or a thousand words responding to or dissecting my train of thought was someone who genuinely heard what I was saying and acknowledged my experience as reality. Dad's teaching #3: Timing, while not everything, matters My dad was laid back. He would go with the flow and what my mom or my siblings or I wanted was generally fine for him. But he knew exactly when to use the timing of something to work for him if he needed it to. The favorite story I have about my dad's timing is when he proposed to my mom. I wasn't a glimmer in anyone's eye at this point, so I wasn't there for this, but I heard the story enough. My mom was lying on the couch of her house, sicker than a dog and just absolutely miserable. Dad, God love him, apparently decided that this was as good a time as any to ask her a big question. He got down on one knee next to her by the couch and asked her to marry him. I won't keep you in suspense, she said yes. There could possibly have been a better time to propose but the time he did choose made for a memorable story that is still fun to tell. Dad's teaching #4: Hard-work is important but it can have a cost Dad was a hard-working man. His whole life he worked with his hands at different manufacturing plants. Before that he was in the air force. Before that he loved helping on his dad's farm. Hard-work was important and it was just a part of life. It wasn't something to shy away from and it would build character. Although there could be a cost with hard-work. My dad lost a couple fingers in the work he did. But it never stopped him from continuing to do what needed to be done. My dad didn't work because he wanted to be rich. In fact, my dad would tell me that he grew up poor and he was completely fine always being poor, but that he needed to make sure that he had enough to take care of his family. Dad didn't have a use for tons of money, never understood why people thought it was going to make them happy. He would just as happily wear his jeans until they were no longer covering everything appropriately, and that's after patching with duct tape (a habit my mom broke him of, finally). My dad's hands were rough. You could tell his hands hand been busy his whole life. I remember when I had my tonsils out (and ended up having strep throat during the surgery so I had to stay in the hospital longer), my dad came up after work and held my hand and would rub it and at first I protested because his hands were so warm and rough, but then, it struck me that it was just who he was. That was how I knew it was my dad. Dad teaching #5: It is ok to unapologetically love your pets. If you asked my dad, any of the pets that were ever in our homes were not his pets. They were my mom's or my siblings or mine or my uncle's. Yet, he could always be seen giving them some extra pettings or ear scratches when he thought no one was watching. Dad would try and claim that the animals hated him but in reality they just loved playing with him. It would bring him no end of delight to pretend to scare the cat only to see the cat come right back to do it all again. Finally, after he retired, he got HIS dog. Rosie. She waited for him when he would leave and stayed by his side. She had her dog bed in the kitchen by where he would sit and he loved to spoil her. Rosie became a BIG dog and my dad just adored her. She was his baby and he treated her as such and did so with no care to what anyone else thought. Dad's teaching #6: There are hundreds of ways to say I love you without using those words. As I mentioned, my dad wasn't one for many words. He would tell me he loved me. But there was a plethora of ways he showed me he loved me and others without saying the words. Whether it was telling me to be careful when I was driving anywhere or to keep out of trouble, I knew what was underneath it was his love for me. Quite regularly he would tell my nephew, who received his motorcycle from my dad, "don't do anything stupid on that bike, y'hear?" It might have been something like telling me what to watch out for when going out to do something. You don't need to use the specific words in order to let someone know they are loved by you. Dad's teaching #7: Don't be afraid to dance because of what other people might think I've always been self-conscious. It's not one of my finer traits that I worry a lot about what other people might think. My poor dad experienced this with me most strongly when he took me to a father daughter dance when I was in second or third grade. We got all dressed up, took all the obligatory pictures, and then went to the dance. I was fine as we walked around and looked at decorations and got some punch. As soon as he suggested we start to dance and went to the dance floor, I froze up and started to cry and ran to the girl's bathroom. Well, there wasn't a whole lot he could do while I was in there crying so he just waited outside. When I finally came out and told him through sniffles that I was scared about what other people would say about me since I didn't know how to dance. My dad just laughed and shook his head and told me to not pay attention to other people but to just focus on dancing the way that felt right to me, and then proceeded to let me step all over his feet while trying to dance and making me laugh the whole time. I'm proud to say that there was not a similar incident when he came to my father daughter dance for my sorority at college. We had a great night with no hiding in the bathroom to cry. Dad's teaching #8: Beware of seasickness but also know what causes it So, my great indoors-woman-ness (patent pending) was not inherited from my dad. In fact, he loved everything outdoors, whether it was camping, fishing, sitting out on the porch, going to the farm, digging in the dirt, etc. If he could have spent all his life outside he would have. Yet, somehow he ended up with me.... When I was younger he made the wise investment in a camper, figuring that it was the best of both worlds. You know, my mom and I could still enjoy the luxuries of being indoors while being technically in the outdoors. Now, while I may not like the outdoors, the one thing I did pick up from my dad was a love of fishing. I really enjoy fishing, it might be my introverted nature and the typical quiet that accompanies fishing, but I LOVED going to the lake at the campground to fish with my dad. One day he got particularly enthusiastic and rented a boat to take out on the lake and took my brother with him first. It didn't last long though as they came back because my brother was fighting some pretty extreme seasickness. Well, I decided it was then my turn, but not before we stopped at the little campsite store and bought and ice cream cone. So, my dad is navigating our boat out onto the water and I am eating away at my ice cream cone. About halfway out I pipe up: "Oh no! I must have seasickness!" and promptly continued to eat my ice cream. I had no idea what it meant to be seasick, I just overheard that Scott had it and so it must just be something you get when going out on a boat. Dad loved to tell that story and got the biggest laugh every time remembering the fact that I convinced myself to be seasick mid-ice cream cone. Moral of the story, know what something is before you claim to have it. Dad teaching #9: Swimming underwater works better when all of you makes it under the water What I think was my dad's favorite story to tell about me was how he had to teach me to swim underwater. He would always tell people how great a swimmer I was and how sad he was that I gave it up when I went to high school. He was particularly proud of my backstroke and how graceful it was. Apparently my back stroke was so good I could even beat him in a race. (Which is a feat considering I was about 4' something to his 6'4). Yet, there was one type of stroke that eluded me. That would be swimming underwater. I declared to him that I was so proud of myself because I could finally swim underwater. Of course, being excited for me he asked me to show him. And I would have told you that I showed him the most graceful, lovely, picture-perfect underwater swimming that had ever existed.... Until I came up from under the water to see him doubled over laughing hysterically. Apparently, my beautiful stroke was lacking in the fact that all of me, except for my butt, was underwater. So, there was this upside-down V going along across the pool for all I was worth, butt firmly in the air above the water. This was, unfortunately, not an easy habit to break me of. Dad just couldn't seem to get through to me that my butt was not actually under the water. Finally he had the great idea that there needed to be some kind of incentive in order for me to get my booty down under the water. He started throwing quarters down to the bottom of the pool and telling me to go get them and that whichever ones I was able to retrieve I got to keep. Well, having learned a bit about being thrifty from him, I found my incentive to get down underwater completely and totally. It took a total of about $2.75 for me to learn this skill. Dad teaching #10: A look can say way more than any words you can choose
My mom and dad perfected their punishment routine at home. My mom was the one who would express with words just what you had done wrong, why they were disappointed, what you could have done instead, and what the punishment would be. She is not quite as sparse in using words as my dad. So, we would sit at the kitchen table while my mom informed us of the error in our ways. But my dad never said a word during these times. He didn't have to. Instead, he would stand in the doorway with his arms crossed across his chest and give us "the look." It is hard to describe the look. It was a combination of narrowed eyes, something between a frown and a scowl, eyebrows doing the angry slanty thing, and a posture that says: "you done messed up." Many times if we were acting up he didn't have to say a single word. We would all simply see him give us "the look" and we'd shape up. My mom never understood it, but it was all communicating way more efficiently than any words he could have said. I know there are hundreds of more things my dad taught me through my life. (An honorable mention might be that there is a time and place for "sentence enhancers.") And I hope that one day I can pass on to Lucas, and if we're blessed with baby girl, the lessons of life that my dad taught me and that I can do them with a smirk and smile and a laugh that says, don't take yourself so seriously. What I know for sure is that I will miss him deeply but I know that he is finally free from the pain and suffering he endured and that we will meet again at the great feast. I love you Dad. In 9 years of serving as a pastor I have sat at countless bedsides with people who were only in for a minor procedure all the way to sitting with people as they take their last breath. Sometimes these bedsides are at hospitals, but they are also at hospices, nursing homes, and homes. No two bedsides have ever been exactly the same but the one thing that does remain the same is that this is a holy place to be. I truly believe that the bedside is one of the places where the veil between here and the place to which we will all return is the thinnest. As I mentioned, I have sat by more bedsides than I can count. But this last month I have been traveling back and forth to Cleveland to sit at the bedside of one of my dear family members. This is the first bedside in my own family I have sat beside since I entered into ministry in quite this way. The situation was very tenuous and continues to remain unknown as to how it will go. It was still a holy time, but being on that side of being at the bedside gave me some different insights. The first is just how truly and honestly exhausting it is. Now, I knew this on an intellectual level, but I didn't remember just how physically demanding just sitting can be on a person. Spending hours in sedentary activity has a way of wearing on you in a different way than other activities. That's because stress and sorrow have a very physical effect on people and mixed with the stationary atmosphere of bedsides leads to this feeling like you've run a marathon twice over without having done much in terms of physical activity. In fact, I joked with my mom at times that my brain just didn't work anymore. I recognized that I had to ask doctors and nurses to repeat themselves because I wasn't taking in all the information the first time. It's why one of the items I list as a "must' when anyone is in the hospital is a good notebook/notepad (and a pen or pencil). It lets you write down what you hear the health professionals say, it lets you write down questions that arise in your mind which I assure you that you will not remember it later, and you know, worse case scenario, you can play a riveting game of hangman in it. Honestly, though, having something to write on that keeps all the information contained in one place, where you can put dates and times of rounds, medication changes, etc, makes the whole experience feel a little more manageable. (For people like me who need to have binders or notebooks in order to feel organized, put together and "in control" having this was super important.) The second thing I remembered (as I had somehow twisted my body to fit into a small recliner in a way I could drift off for a little bit) is that self-care is critical in times like this. It can be easy to lose yourself in caring for your loved one. In the rush of trying to make sure you don't miss this doctor or this specialist or the meal time to help them eat, it is really simple to just wear yourself down to the point you get sick. It's because we desperately want to care for our loved ones and make sure they know that we love them and when someone's sick, one of the easiest ways to do that is to be contently present. Yet, if we let ourselves get so run down that we are sick and foggy, our helpfulness begins to decline at a rampant rate. Instead, it's important to remind ourselves that sleeping in our own bed for a night is not selfish but an act of self-care. It's ok to take a longer lunch to just center yourself and let yourself breathe. If you're not up at the bedside 24/7 it does not make you a bad loved one, only a realistic one who knows their limits. Your love still is present and felt even if you are taking time to step away. A care bag is critical, in my opinion, to caring for your loved one when they are in the hospital. Now, this is a care bag for you. Make sure you include in it water, a phone charger, protein based snacks (stick cheese, etc), crackers (good for upset stomachs), a book or something to occupy yourself whether it be sudoku, knitting, etc, something sweet or that you just enjoy for those mores stressful moments, a notebook, pen/pencil, something caffeinated (soda if you have that preference), a sweater or light blanket in case you get cold, and cash (singles are always good for vending machines). A neck pillow can be helpful, too. If you are looking at hours at the hospital, you don't want to be running back and forth to your car or navigating the parking structure if it's not needed. Really, the bottom line is just be gentle with yourself. Understand that in times of stress or grief you're going to have moments where your brain just doesn't work, you're going to forget things, and you're going to say that you wish you had... (insert thing here). The ministry of presence, the holiness of presence at the bedside, is powerful not because you're perfect, but because of the love that is there between those in the room. Much like God's power is made perfect in our weakness, your presence at the bedside is made perfect in the gift of self you offer. Care for yourself and you will notice you are much better equipped to care for your loved one at the bedside. Peace be yours!
Adoption is a huge journey. There is no way I could ever cover it in one single blog post. So, as I'm able, I'll be sharing posts and reflections about the places our path has taken us. I figure I have to start in the place where our journey started. And that for us was when the diagnoses were attached to me and I became what was wrong with me. We had tried for over a year to conceive. We had already known that it could be difficult for us to conceive. Just not how difficult. We got into see a highly recommended fertility doctor in Louisville and she was great. Got us in right away. Honestly, that was one of the least fun times I've ever had. That's when I learned about my additional diagnosis of PCOS (poly-cystic ovarian syndrome). If you'd like to read more about what it is I'd recommend this site: www.pcosaa.org/symptoms Those treatments were filled with mixed emotions. The top one was hope. Each cycle there were hopes and visions of what could be forming. But there was also shame. I felt like less of a woman because I had to have help with something that other women were able to do without thinking about it. There was shame because privacy becomes non-existent in this process, I mean it... super non-existent. You don't need all the details only that if you are seeking to maintain some semblance of mystery and dignity, fertility treatments are not for you. We sought IUI treatments. If you really want to know more about what that means check out this site: americanpregnancy.org/infertility/intrauterine-insemination/ Now, important to note here, infertility treatments are not covered by most insurances. Like at all. And on top of that, insurance is then like: So, we were paying out of pocket every time we went in for any part of these many... many visits to go through this. That was depressing enough. Then there were the delightful shots that I had to give myself. That was a lovely experience. Overall, it all made me the shame fall heavier on me because I felt that if I wasn't so "broken" that we wouldn't have to be going through this. And yes, "broken" is exactly the word that bounced around my brain over and over and over until it was all I could hear when we were in the doctor's office, at home, at work... it just stripped away all my self-esteem. When treatments didn't seem to be working and the most recent ultrasound showed that there were new cysts forming, the recommendation became that I should undergo surgery to remove the cysts and basically serve as an exploratory procedure. I ended up having to do this surgery twice, though, because the first surgeon looked around and literally didn't do anything. Our specialist and the next surgeon called it a "peek and freak." He didn't have any clue what to do and got out. So, the next surgeon actually did something. They used a machine called the DaVinci Robot to remove the cysts. In this procedure they also found new growths of endometriosis, more places where there were adhesion's from my surgery when I was 17, and significant damage in general. We were told that the surgeon did his absolute best to try and fix some of the adhesion's but that there was an increased risk if we were to conceive via my right ovary because of an increased chance of it being an ecotopic pregnancy. In other words, I walked away from that surgery in a lot of pain (as the doctor said "Myself and two doctors and a robot took you in an alley and beat you up) and even less hope than when we went into it. There were SO many fake smiles during this process. I really hate to say that but there really were. Some I saved for David because I felt so guilty for being the reason we had to go through all of this. (David was dedicated and loving and supportive through all of this - repeatedly affirming that he loves me and did not consider me "broken" or a problem.) Now, we didn't share the information widely that we were undergoing fertility treatments, but there were a few people that we did share with, and as well as they meant, it's not an easy thing to try and formulate a response to that is supportive and non-judgmental and non-hurtful. (Tiny target for people to hit). One of the responses that I still remember vividly that was so meaningful for me and yet absolutely heart wrenching was when one of the people I had confided in, after a particularly promising treatment, laid her hands over my womb and prayed for me, David, and what might be... As you know the treatment was not successful. And it was after that failed treatment that we made the decision to stop seeking treatment with the intention to eventually pursue adoption. We felt as though we could no longer justify the costs of infertility treatments when that money could be going towards an adoption, especially since IVF would be the next step and the concern of a difficult pregnancy if we did succeed. When that decision was made there was a lot of grief. This was it, this was what "giving up" felt like. This was saying goodbye to those photo albums in my head of what it would be like to be pregnant and give birth. This was closing the door to knowing what it would be like to feel a life growing in me, to feel the kicks, to get the ultrasound pictures. This was saying goodbye to the pregnancy that would never exist. This was grieving the child that had been carried in my mind. There were tears, there was anger, there was frustration. In my grief I struggled with my relationship with God. I felt as though I was being a poor example of faithfulness because I was giving up. I was angry because there are so many examples of women in Scripture who were infertile but conceived because they had been faithful. (i.e. Sarai/Sarah; Rachel; Hannah; Michal; Elizabeth). I screamed "have I not been faithful, Lord?" I felt betrayed by God. I felt betrayed by the body God had given me. Why was this not meant to be for me? Wouldn't I be a good mother? Wouldn't David be an amazing father? What had I done so wrong to deserve this...? It hurt. It took months of prayer and anger and sorrow to get to a healthier place. Here's the thing, though, a healthier place doesn't mean that the grief is gone. Friends, the grief is still here. One of the most overwhelming and frustrating parts of infertility is the difficulty people have understanding the grief that I had and still carry. It is almost an impossible task to explain what it is like to grieve something that never existed. I spent a lot of time, energy, tears and words trying to share with people exactly what I was feeling. How do you help people grasp the concept of mourning over something that didn't ever physically exist. This kind of grief is so painful because it is really hard to get closure on this kind of loss. It's the loss of everything the could have been. In that grief I mourned for the child that I would never have the chance to watch grow in my uterus. It was grief for losing the part of my identity that I had tied up with my ability to conceive and carry a child. The tears were for the fact that I won't have the chance to look down at a child and see David's eyes, my nose, and see what a little us would look like. It was sorrow for the photo album I had in my brain of the future and it became a future I would never have. The other part of this grief was tied up in embarrassment and feelings of being a terrible person. Whenever I would see a baby announcement on Facebook, or a friend would call with pregnancy news, or when new baby pictures were passed around, when I would baptize a baby, I would smile and in my heart, there was happiness for them, but at the same time I was angry and heartbroken. It tore the scab off of the wound that was still on my heart every time. I struggled mightily with this because I felt like an absolutely awful person for being jealous and angry because of someone else's good news. Particularly difficult for me were my friends who had been in touch with us because they knew we were working on the adoption process and wanted advice for how to begin because they'd been having difficulty conceiving, and then it seemed like weeks later they were sending me the news that they had conceived. I was beyond hurt but it is not something that is socially acceptable to express in that moment. Six and a half years ago we officially made the decision to no longer seek to conceive. Our beautiful boy Lucas came into our life four years ago. Two and a half years ago I was switched to 3 month birth control. I lost it when that change happened because it felt even more permanent and final. And it still causes an ache under my joy when loved ones share their pregnancy news. This grief is where our adoption journey truly started. By saying goodbye to what never was and what would never be. It's also where our journey continues because this grief comes on like waves. Sometimes it is low tide and it barely laps at my toes and it almost feels like letting go. Other times I feel as though I might not be able to catch a full breath because I am sinking under these waves that crash over my head repeatedly, my lungs hurt from holding my breath, and the tears stream down my face, and I just hold on as best I can until the water resides. My grief for what never was and never will be takes nothing away from my love for my son. To try and deny it would be more harmful. Therefore, I swim, I tread, I hold my breath, and I watch as the tide goes out again, knowing that there is grief but by the grace of God I have a much larger capacity for grace and love.
Don't worry dear ones, I am not venturing into another post about depression and/or mental illness. Instead, I've been thinking a lot about grief lately. Grief is such a hard concept to pin down. Partially because everyone experiences it differently but also because, as a society, we have worked really hard to sanitize and privatize grief. From early on warning to not "air dirty laundry" and "put on a brave face" and to "stop being so... dramatic... emotional... such a snowflake..." we have cleaned up, cleared away and generally made guidelines for what grief is not allowed to look like. Rules for Grieving: 1) Monitor how often you cry in front of others. Appropriate times vary by extent of loss. 2) Make sure that if you have to be loud in how you grieve that you do it out of the public eye. 3) Don't make others uncomfortable in how you choose to grieve. 4) Don't inform others when they've said or done something damaging, surely they just mean well. 5) Let the burden of need fall on you. Be ok with people telling you to reach out when you have a need. Do not in any way think someone may bring care for you without you initiating the contact. And then, whatever you do, do not further others discomfort by actually taking them up on their offer. And so on and so forth until you grieve only in private, or refuse to grieve, or believe that grieving is somehow selfish, and eventually decide it is healthier to just internalize everything so as not to put anyone else out. Or, get completely stressed out trying to obey the societal dictates that you will undoubtedly break and then completely blow up. Well, honestly, none of that sounds particularly healthy or helpful. Now, I know I'm only about eight and a half years into ministry, but I've been to many funerals. Most as the presiding minister and some as a mourner/supporter. The most beautiful moment I remember of someone embracing their grief and receiving support in communal grieving was when the widow of the deceased went to the side of the casket and laid her hand on his and declared: "I miss you. Life is lonelier and harder without you. But I'm so angry that you're gone and I've lost my best friend." And then she stood there sobbing, legitimately, soul-crushing sobs. I saw the funeral director trying to decide how best to get her some privacy when her young granddaughter came up and said: "I'm mad I'll never get to play putt-putt with grandpa again," and she, too, began to sob loudly. I watched as the daughter of the deceased stopped the funeral director from stepping in with a gentle hand on his and she went to stand beside her mother and daughter and with an arm around each, she began to cry. One by one family and friends came forward, made contact in some way with each other and grieved - openly, some loudly, some not, and all without any self-consciousness in their grief. The group dispersed as naturally as it had gathered but there was an air of catharsis in the room and it was like the first breath of fresh air after being inside for too long. You could feel the relief and the new sense of connection that had entered the gathered mourners. It was truly spectacular to witness. That moment very clearly revealed to me the desperate need in our society for openness to communal grieving. Dating back to at least ancient Egypt there have existed professional mourners. At that time, two non-related mourners would attend funerals as representatives of goddesses Isis and Nephthys. Their role was to pull out their hair to bestow the energy needed for the deceased to reach the afterlife. Professional mourners are also known as "moirologists" (fun fact - see, my blog can even be educational). There are incidences of professional mourners throughout the world and throughout cultures. It is a truly fascinating topic and I encourage you to read more on it. But from my point of view, I turn back to Scripture to the examples that are offered there of hired mourners. There are two references that stand out in my mind. The first is at the death of Jairus' daughter. It reads "When Jesus came to the leader's house and saw the flute players and the crowd making a commotion, he said 'Go away; for the girl is not dead but sleeping.' And they laughed at him." (Matthew 9:23-24; NRSV) The other is from Jesus' raising of Lazarus from John 11:31: "When the Jews who had been with Mary in the house, comforting her, noticed how quickly she got up and went out, they followed her, supposing she was going to the tomb to mourn there." (John 11:31; NRSV). So, neither text directly says these were hired mourners, but the implication is there, especially in the Matthew text where we hear about flute players and a crowd making a commotion. In two examples we see the importance of the community surrounding the mourners with support and love and providing space for the bereaved to mourn in the way they need. I hate that this practice seems to have been lost to our community today. There is enough going on in the life of someone who is grieving that I am saddened at this need to be aware enough of emotions so as to not make a societal faux pas. Now, I understand that not everyone needs to grieve loudly, or with great, gulping sobs. Yet, I think that everyone could benefit from knowing there are others who are willing just to sit with us in our grieving. To let us be sad, and to share stories, or angers, or regrets, without conversation. Sometimes we just need a place to voice these thoughts. Every once in a while we might just need to voice emotions and frustrations without needing someone to offer a solution. I know for some people, this would frustrate them to no end because they are natural fixers. But, I promise, sometimes people just need to voice thoughts without needing a plethora of solutions. Especially at a time of grief.
Lately, I've been around a lot of people grieving. Some are grieving the loss of a loved one, some are grieving the loss of circumstances or a relationship, while still others are grieving an impending loss. All of these are heavy griefs to bear and when we try to carry them alone, the weight presses down until we feel as though we are stuck in one place. It can be a suffocating feeling for people. Yet, what I have also seen is others coming alongside those who are grieving and helping to bear that grief. To go and listen to someone who is hurting, to let them know you are there and to give them genuine care and compassion, does not take away the grief, but it shares it. When the load is shared between more than one person, it starts to become lighter. After one particularly emotional visit for me, I realized that I had left this person's home with more grief than I had gone in, but I had seen in this person's face a relief, a lightening of the heaviness of the burden they carry. The grief was not too much for me to help shoulder and it is truly a place that I consider incredibly holy. To be allowed into someone else's grief and space of mourning is to be welcomed into an innermost sanctuary and I am always aware of the honor that I have received to be there. When I carry the grief of others with me I recognize that it is not just mine to bear, either. I return the grief, the pain, the loss, the gratitude for the opportunity, to God. I recognize that it all belongs to God in the end and that if I try to bear the collective griefs of a community it will burn me out. They are not mine to keep, they are mine to hold for a time. So, I ask you friends, be aware of the grief of others. Save space for grief to take form as it will, for others and for yourself. Be gentle with yourself in your own grieving with the recognition that your process may not look like anyone else's and that is completely ok. Recognize that your tears and your cries are not something that needs to be hidden for the comfort of others. Your grief and your healing are yours. And, as in all things, may the peace of God be with you. |
AuthorI've been Robyn for my whole life. I've been a wife for 10 years and a mom for 5 years. I've been a pastor for about 10 years. I'm still stumbling, but I'm still standing. Archives
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