Sunday, March 13, 2016

Amputation

My mother is dying. She’s been dying for 9 years, it’s just more evident recently.  There is a lot written on grief and many times if I see an article about it, I can’t help but click and read it.  If I don’t have the time for the reading or for my own emotions evoked by such reading, I send myself the link so I’ll read it later.  I rarely pass over such articles.  I’m sure this says some about me, but I’ll leave the psycho-analyzing up to my husband. 

One such article from The Guardian particularly drew me because it wasn’t just on grief, but on the pain of losing mothers.  The article resonated, though there were a few aspects I disagree with most likely because I have a different world view than the author (more on that later).   I also grimace a little at an article that makes losing a parent seem like the epitome of grief. I’m not one to compare and compete for burdens, we all are living very different lives, and we can’t ask others to understand a perspective they haven’t lived.  But I have watched a handful of people lose a spouse, and from observing that grief, I am thankful for having not walked it.  

One such line from the article that spoke to my personal perspective is, "We have not “lost” our mothers. We say that to be polite, but in truth, we have become un-mothered, like Marie Antoinette was un-headed or that wilderness hiker who sawed off his arm was un-handed. It feels violent. It feels raw and fundamental, a pain that reaches all the way down to your ligaments and bones. Our mothers were our first firmament, literally, our first homes."

Sunday, February 28, 2016

Perpetual Prodigal

**Author’s note: I started writing this almost 4 months, which just solidifies my role as a perpetual prodigal daughter, I can’t even commit to writing a post about my lack of commitment.

Recently I was standing in my kitchen on a lazy Saturday morning making pancakes.  And I suddenly had this vivid recollection of a time I was 17 and gave a talk about faith for a freshman retreat.  I stood up in front of a bunch of 14 years old and I spoke of the trials I had faced, the testing of my faith, and the ultimate comfort of leaning on Christ.  I really thought I was something, inspiring these younger kids with my tumultuous teen years and deep, wisdom-filled faith.  I laughed out loud at the memory.  I had no idea.  What I thought was a trial and the most difficult times of my life, seem trivial now.  And I have a hard time recollecting anything of my faith that was not based on either feelings or what I had been taught in 13 years of Catholic school and 4 years of youth group and teen Jesus conferences.

I’ve always been a bit arrogant, so it’s no surprise I thought I had my shit together.  It didn’t help that I had peers tell me I was an “inspiration”.  I still have a tendency to be over confident.  But now, 15 years later, I no longer feel like an inspiration, and while I am confident in my Biblical knowledge, I often feel like a perpetual prodigal daughter, making the same mistakes over and over again. 

Saturday, November 7, 2015

I am not My Mountain

Recently in the online infertility support group I’m a part of, there was a thread asking everyone to introduce ourselves.  The specifics were, how long have you been married, where you live, how long have you been trying to conceive, and what your diagnosis is. 

I am blessed by this group.  It is a group of Christian women, struggling to conceive, but believing in the power of God.  I joined in the last 4 weeks and I look forward to getting to know these women who understand the desire to hold a child and the weariness that comes with waiting. So I really like the idea of knowing more about the lives of the women I was praying for and who are praying for me.  But I worry, when waiting for a miracle; we are giving too much power to medical diagnosis.  I’m not saying cancer patients shouldn’t seek treatment or that diabetics should throw out their insulin; don’t get me wrong.  But I am saying, when God whispers the promise of children to you and your loved ones, why not believe that promise by living it; speaking it? Why not put your faith in God’s word and not a test. 

Monday, October 19, 2015

Confessions of a Christian Cracker

I'm Sorry!
As a Caucasian male-American I pretty much came out of the womb feeling ashamed. Oppression, racism, misogyny, KKK, The Trail of Tears, etc., etc.… appear to be way too much for a white man in America to rise above. 

Friday, October 2, 2015

False Dilemmas


I have seen a lot of proselytizing lately, mostly by the conservative religious right, stating things like: “Veterans should come before migrants!” or “Veterans needs should come before illegals!” As a United States citizen you would be hard-pressed to disagree; and if you did, you more than likely will be labeled a liberal kook, or worse yet, an ISIS sympathizer. While this propaganda machine steamrolls along, and so many angry individuals hitching their patriotic wagons to it, I wonder if they have ever considered that this just might be a political trick bag?

Saturday, July 11, 2015

The False Road

God originally created the Soul in its own nature: perfect purity, perfect calm, perfect silence. It is a vitrtual well spring gushing from the very veins of the Heavenly Father Himself. This is what allows mankind to commune with the divine. We hunger for it. But we often go astray.

This Soul can never be physically injured, never marred…but it can be defiled. Yet all things added to it do for a time trouble it; and this is sorrow. Sorrow accrued can eclipse the loving rays of God and lead to bitterness, deception, and depression. This yoke is much too heavy for man to bear.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

My Own Internal Riots

I keep telling myself to write this blog. I’m supposed to write this blog, this big brave blog that holds me accountable for my own bullshit.  But whenever I get serious about such accountability, I want to wallow in my own bullshit, I want to roll around in it and make friends with my own bullshit. Instead of writing this inspirational post where I call myself out, I just want to write bad poetry that resembles bad 90s alternative songs.  It would go something like this: You don’t know what it’s like. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT ITS LIKE.  Or something sappy, yet smooth like, “I will not be idled with despair….”  And yet.

 Self awareness is hard; it’s much easier to just wallow.  I will try my best.