I Miss My Friend

Nine years ago this Christmas Eve my friend Pete was burried at a small cemetary by the roadside just outside of Metter, Georgia. I payed a visit just the other day. It's my custom to leave yellow roses for him as they were a favorite of his to give to me. Yellow roses are a symbol of friendship and to this day I don't see one that I don't think of Pete. The image on his headstone was taken from an identical photograph that coincidentally sits on my dresser. He's smiling a bit more in the image etched in the stone, but it's likeness is eery. I stumble over my words even now as I'm not sure how to commit them when speaking of my friend. I find it's far easier for people to recall the positive attributes and characteristics of an acquaintance, friend or loved one once they are gone. But that was never the case with Pete. I think we all knew just how wonderful he was when he was here. It was however unfortunate that some of his friends were idiots and didn't recognize the value he placed on THEM. But I don't recall anyone not knowing that he was a tremendous and very special person. There was something in his very nature that made you feel warm in his presence. So many times it's possible for one to feel alone in the midst of company, that was never the case with him. I always felt as if I was next to someone who thought that I was wonderful, special. That was his magic...

It seems vain to attempt this, putting my sorrow into words. There's not even the slightest possibility that I'll accomplish it. There's no way to describe how hollow I feel when I catch myself staring at his photograph. I feel rediculous when I try to explain Pete to people who didn't know him. As much as I pride myself on my verbal ability I am stifled when I think of my friend. More often the tears flow rather than the words. There's nothing to say that hasn't been said. There's no pain or loss to feel that's new. It's all so very old to me. And as I get older the pain ages right along with me. I've learned finally that it's alright to cling to it, to grab onto missing him. I tried once to forget and found it brought me only guilt rather than peace. I'm content to miss him for the rest of my life. And there is some comfort in knowing that "time wounds all heals".

This year has been an interesting one at best. Like most people my family has felt the crunch of the economic times we live in and are sputtering through it as well as can be expected. Aside from the external factors that have shaped this year 2009, I've undergone some very personal hurts and inner growths. Both parents have been ill as of late and I've struggled with some health issues of my own. But in the midst of that I found myself at the center of some of my most challenging emotional upheavals as well. Because my birthday is in December I had almost 12 full months last year to think about turning 30 and what that meant for me. I was having a conversation with my daughter, Valerie one morning in mid 2008 while we were in my bathroom playing with her hair before school. She mentioned that she was surprised noone laughed at her or made fun of her for coming to school with her hair wet & in a ponytail the day before. I asked her why she thought people would make fun over something so silly? She said she didn't know but was glad they didn't. I gave my usual nod of understanding then asked why she cared what other people thought anyway? And her response caught me so off guard that I didn't quite know how to retort. She said "...well, I guess I care what people think because I don't know what I think." That sent my brain into a tailspin. So I made it my mission last year to learn from and with Valerie. I decided to spend more time helping my children figure out their own thoughts and I did some digging of my own. I realized that I was almost 30 years old and still struggling with confidence in my ownership of MY own thoughts and feelings. People do have a tendency to worry more about what their peers think and say when they don't take the time to understand their own convictions and feelings. I am no different...
I believe those months spent with that underlying mindset helped  me prepare for the difficult times that lay ahead for me. It was the sort of "building block" I needed to face this year.

I remember my shyness and lack of confidence as far back as pre-school. Though I had no short supply of friends growing up, I was very short stacked in other areas. I never felt adequate enough, or deserving enough of my friendships. I was easy to pick on and suffered mild torments at the hands of my gleeful friends who were all too happy to test my thin skin. I was dubbed with many nicknames: "Bones", "Giraffe Neck" & "Gibler" were the most common. "Gibler" is the one I've come to loathe as it was given to me the summer before 5th grade when I apparantly bore an uncanny resemblance to Kimmy Gibler, DJ's best friend on the t.v. show Full House. My mother once noted that with friends like mine, who needed enemies? And that was the God's-honest-truth of the matter.

I brought those same feelings of inadequacy with me into my adulthood. For many years I've kept friends and company with people who did a great deal more taking than giving in our relationships. I would leap at what I saw was an opportunity to help a friend, no matter how outragous the request. I would literally give until it hurt. I would shoulder their burdens along with my own and have spent a great many hours, I would venture to guess days and weeks of my life giving, consoling and belaboring pseudo-friend's needs; All the while neglecting the reality of what it was doing to me because I so seldom got anything in return. I tried so hard to never ask anything of these people so as not to appear needy, for fear of exposing weakness. And I can attest that if you give until it hurts, well... it hurts.

In April of this year I was confronted with the most heartwrenching betrayal of my life. I discovered that my best friend of 18+ years had jeopardized my family and everything I had worked the last decade of my life for. Over the course of several years she made "passes" at my husband, very leading inuendos that had he responded to, would have torn my family apart. My husband, in an effort to show me her true colors finally divulged this information to me. He kept it secret for so long that when it finally came out I had no idea what to do with the information. I was confused and deeply hurt and so blindly angry I didn't even know WHO to be angry with. I coveted my friendship with this woman. I stood by her side and lended support when there was hardly anything left for me to give. I was so protective of our friendship that I had managed to forge a state of denial that only this news could snap me out of! Once I was able to break it all down and digest the information from my husband I confronted her. We still speak though our friendship is irrevocably changed. I struggle quite often with the "how to's" and "if I should's" when it comes to my communication with her. This incident represents the majority of the war but there have been other battles with former friends as well. But none as important as this one.

So this year has brought me a deep digestion of where I stand with those I love. I've learned that it's okay to draw your lines in the sand and set boundaries and make your needs very clear. I've learned that it's more important to invest your time in those who invest in you. Most importantly though, I've learned that my self worth is not something I can measure in how much I give to others. It is measured in what I get in return.

I Wish I Understood How She Does This!

This morning around 6:45 a.m. I called to my children upstairs to wake them. I followed the same morning ritual as always. But today something struck me. My 11 year old daughter, Valerie has been drawing since she was two (as shown in the pic above). She has a very beautiful artistic gift and it's blossomed over the years just as she has. For almost a decade now we've accepted that there is never anything to write with or write on in our home. We scavange for scraps of paper and working pens and whole pencils, not chips and shards of pencils. Almost every evening Valerie draws before going to bed. In the morning she typically wakes up and comes to me with some new sketch or story. In my sleepy, hurried haze I always hug her, take the paper or papers and tell her that I'll look at them in a little while, which I do (after my eyes open - usually when they're eating breakfast). When they sit down in the kitchen to eat I stand at the counter to join them and talk about what Valerie's drawn or what book Michael is reading. And as Valerie wandered down the stairs sleepily this morning with paper in hand it occurred to me that as commonplace as this has become it might stop someday. I began to panic before she reached the bottom step that spills into the hallway. I took the paper from her and held her a little longer this morning. My mind raced with splotchy bits of "what if's?" What if she loses interest in drawing? What if she stops wanting paper, charcoal, pencils, drawing pads, envelopes, scrap or junk mail from the backseat of my car? What if? Oh my God! I swore to myself that I would no longer begrudge her the mounting stacks of falling sketches and bits of artwork that pile up on the hall table, corner stand or the kitchen counter.

I swore silently that I would cherish every moment I spent twinged over her complete defiance at putting away her drawing paper and utencils. I will do my best to commit myself to thanking God more for the precious gift he bestowed on her. I never want to stop being irritated by the overspill Valerie creates. I never want to see the day when phone calls, boyfriends, emailing, social commitments and random teenage bordom overpower her thirst for paper and pencil. I pray I never see an end to the one and only peeve that Valerie posesses, and that's when she runs out of paper. She is a cool breeze that's blown across my life for more than 1/3 of my existance. The only time she becomes aggitated and unconsolable is when I'm not able to immediately provide paper. She is the sweetest, most endeering, lovely girl. I find it remarkable that her world is wound and bound by her ability to release what's in her head. It must follow through to her fingertips or you will have no peace and no rest until it does! I was blindly caught off guard not long ago when I took both Valerie and Michael on a day trip to Savannah and on the way home she ran out of paper, became aggitated and nagged me until we walked in the door of our home and she could access more paper. We very seldom fight or argue. She is eager to please and tries her best at whatever she does; So it's a bit of a shock to my system to witness my sweet daughter nag, beg, snip and snarl when she's not getting her way.

 And so it's just occurred to me this very morning that these little irritants that Valerie plants throughout our world are so very near and dear to me. I would love nothing more than to continue to be flustered, frustrated, irritated and overwhelmed by all of Valerie's "art stuff" for the rest of my life. I believe this is the first time I've ever prayed that God continue to let me be bothered and I love it!

The Love That Hurts

I suppose my introduction to blogging should be prefaced by a brief history of my upbringing. I am the quintessential middle child to two very educated, very different and yet eerily similar parents. My older sister and I (pictured above on Easter Sunday of 1980) share the same birthday. We're five years apart. And my little sister (she and I on the right) is 8 years younger than myself. In my home there was always room for us to be ourselves. My parents seldom told us what to think, they simply asked that we do so. We were required to be respectful but were given understanding if a situation required that we not be. My mother, Jennie was a school teacher and my father, Don was employed in some form of the criminal justice system throughout my childhood. When he retired he was a counselor at a medium security prison. I spent ample amounts of time with each of them and family time was always a priority. Extended family was sparse at best...
I believe I take after my father in most respects. He made me read when I got "bored" and forced me to look for tiny, unheard of countries on National Geographic Magazine maps. He is very much a realist, as am I. We had some hiccups in our relationship during my adolesence because of our very similar personalities, stubborn streaks and flaring tempers. However I was also fortunate enough to have taken on some of my mother's positive attributes as well. I am an optomist, a humanitarian and a lover of all things misunderstood. Both parents put a very strong emphasis on self-sufficiency and education. And while those things are very important we were also told quite often that "...anyone can get married, get pregnant and have babies, not everyone can take care of themselves or someone else." A strong belief has always been held by the pair that their three girls should be educated and not ever worry about having children or marriages. And if that wasn't their strong belief, it was my sister's and my strong impression. My father has many quotable quotes. The one that was most obnoxious came when he hugged us. "You're not good for anything except to love." This photo below is of me around age 3, in one of my father's rediculous and infamous Halloween costume get-ups. We were good for nothing alright, except to love and dress up like idiots... This went against all of my girly girl nature. I detested it and he knew it!

I never understood his seemingly pointless declaration until I became a mother myself and soon realized that there is absolutely no reward in parenting that will ever make up for all of the torment and worry you suffer over your children. Nothing they ever do and nothing I've ever felt has even momentarily taken away the ache and hurt of worry I feel every second of every day, even when they're perfectly happy and safe. Children are good for absolutely NOTHING. They ruin your body, take over your life, spend your money, get on your nerves and cause you to contstantly think of the world as one big trap door to disaster. And your only pay off is that you love them so much you'd die for them, without question. And I would scarcely consider it rewarding that I'm consumed by my unwavering desire to throw myself into oncoming traffic, leap across tall buildings, lie down on train tracks or be beheaded by terrorist captors in an effort to save my children. I try not to impose this mindset on my darlings. I do pretty well to keep my worries under wraps most of the time. But when they do something stupid and/or dangerous it forces me to verbally assault them with tales of the horrors that can befall them if they don't think about what they're doing and use caution in every aspect of their lives. Mind you they are ages 11 and 9. (my bratkins below)

My mental state of parenting as well as my mental drilling as a child has molded my belief about children and why people have them. I have never felt that being a mother is a title worthy of reward or praise. It is simply my duty and an acquired passion. I believe that praising my children to their faces and complimenting them to others is far more beneficial to them than bragging about them and forcing others to listen to me endlessly babble about what amazing, intelligent, beautiful kids I have. Forgive me while I rant for a moment... We all know people like this. The women who think that being a "mom" should get her attention or her picture taken. Or the women who can do nothing but brag about how marvelous her kids are while she shoves their latest of 11,000 pictures they've had taken in thier short lifetimes in your face, during which time you quietly gag yourself or mentally push her face down into a puddle of mud.
I also know people who can scarcely afford the children they have and yet somehow feel they should continue to have more. People who's religous beliefs propel them into "populating" out of God's interpretted will versus their resources to provide for them. I know women who have children in the custody of the state or in a relative's custody and who still continue to get pregnant. And most of these women will tell you that they don't believe in abortion. While the procedure is a harrowing, disgusting way of eliminating a human life, it's very interesting to me how someone can deduce that bringing children into the world with no resources or concern for their survival once they arrive is somehow better than this controversial procedure. I believe that God planted in women, the seed of desire to give life and fulfill life beyond our own existance. Biology is a very powerful thing. Still I feel it's no excuse for being an incubator rather than a mother. We are not only mothers to our own offspring, but mother's of the human race. Every child is our child. Every life is given through God's will by women. Few moments in my life have touched me more than the night I watched from my children's bedroom door as they slept, and quietly the whisper of God laid on my heart "They are not yours. They do not belong to you. These are my children and I give them to you in trust. They are a gift. You do not know how long you'll have them. Take care of my children." That whisper took my breath away and forced tears from a corner of my soul I never knew existed. I've spent many years puzzled by women who haven't heard their whisper. "Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat. I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love." - Mother Teresa