Friday I took the kids to see “Brave.” Emma Claire fell asleep. She doesn’t care about being brave. She’s three. I, on the other hand, watched in wonder trying to glean something from this children’s cartoon. I want to be brave. I need to be brave.
And lately, on my quest for bravery, I’ve been pushing the limits. I learned a wee bit of anatomy and physiology and became a personal trainer. I wore a two piece swimsuit. Two pieces. As in, my stomach was bare. Seriously, how brave am I?
And I signed up to become a Body Pump Instructor.
The weekend I signed up, I was feeling very brave. As it drew closer, I began to feel somewhat less brave (terrified!) and by the time my weekend of strength training hell had arrived, I felt pretty much like an idiot. What was I thinking? I can’t teach strength training. I’m not strong. Good grief.
But I survived the weekend and I was given the green light to teach. Body Pump makes me feel strong. And during a year where much of life seemed to be spinning, the weights were something I could control.
I can lift weights. I can be strong.
And then I hurt my back. Hurt, as in lie in bed for the rest of the day. And I no longer felt brave. I felt old.
I’m turning 40 in September. My back hurts. I’m getting divorced. I don’t have a job. My family is miles and miles away. Where am I going to live? How did I get here? More importantly, how do I get out of here?
Wait, where was I? My back. It hurt. I left class and went to the Y break room. A staff person handed me advil and water. I begin to sob. Not little streams. Not dabbing at the eye, isn’t that sweet. I’m talking a river; an ocean. I am sobbing. I am weeping. I am….looking around…and there seem to be…more and more staff arriving. OK, now they are sitting down. Why are they here? More and more, they trickle in until my weeping turns to laughter.
A staff meeting? Seriously?
Couldn’t someone have said something? Something simple like, “Myra Katherine, we’re going to have a staff meeting so if you could, you know, have your nervous breakdown somewhere else, that’d be really great.”
*note to my husband’s lawyer….it was not really a nervous breakdown. I hurt my back and I was in physical pain. (stupid divorce is seriously messing with my creativity.)
Fast forward a couple of weeks. I’m teaching. My back feels great. I’m gaining confidence. I’m brave. Yes, I am totally in control.
And then my lawyer calls. “November.”
That’s the first opportunity to stand before a judge. And I’m mad. November? I can’t live like this for 6 more months. I’m mad that we are even having to go before a judge. I remember conversations. I remember promises of no lawyers and no courtrooms. I remember vows. Broken.
One of our Body Pump tracks that I teach to is, ohhhh, I don’t know, something about Teen Spirit and smelling and whatever. It’s not a VBS song, that’s all I know. But it’s our chest track and it’s grunge and edgy and there’s this one part where they sing, “life is stupid.”
I hate that part.
And yet, sometimes life is a little bit stupid. For the past two weeks, I’ve been thinking that divorce is pretty stupid and lawyers (though I totally respect and adore mine :-) can be stupid and laws can be stupid and I’m teaching and I’m sweating and I’m pushing that bar up and down and up and down and for the first time I sing along with Mr. Nirvana (it is a he, right?) and it dawns on me: Life isn’t stupid, but people can be.
Including myself.
It was time to teach my evaluation video. As in video tape myself teaching so that people a lot stronger and braver than I, can evaluate me.
Now, not to toot my horn or anything, and ok, well it was a hundred years ago, but I was Miss Nebraska. I’m not gonna be thrown by a little video camera.
Oh, the pride. The ego. Bruised and battered. My class? One. Hot. Mess. Not being humble, here. Mic problems, concentration problems, I did all my lunges on the same leg (as opposed to you know, switching to the other leg for round two) and I dropped the mic. Mutiple times.
But I survived.
And when it was over, I turned to see my face in the mirror and there are no words. It looked like I had survived a bear fight.
And I laughed. And I prayed that the video wouldn’t end up on you tube. And I laughed some more. And then I felt better. Better than I had in weeks.
Life can be a little bit stupid. Turns out there was a strap on the back of the mic that would’ve pretty much solved everything (except maybe the lunges) but that morning, I was just too stupid to see it.
Weeping may last for a night but joy comes in the morning. I was laughing. I left the Y that morning and I knew my joy was back.
November? Bring it!
I’m gonna put on my little two-piece swimsuit and I’m getting in the boat and I’m going to remember that Jesus gets in with me and He will calm this storm. And until He does, I’m going to laugh. A lot. And I’m gonna celebrate this not-so-stupid life with my children. And I may just even get a pretty nice tan while I’m at it.
In Christ, we can be brave. In Christ, I am brave.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Sunday, June 17, 2012
The Greatest Gift
Written for Momaha Magazine
(Small note: this was written in April. My mom spent a great deal of time here in January and February during what I call the “crisis” months. She is no longer here and she doesn’t and hasn’t ever “lived” with us…. a point I make for the purposes of anyone who would choose to use this blog against me.) :)
Growing up, I remember a small plaque that hung in our kitchen. It read, “The greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother.” At the time, I was certain there were some other gifts (some equally wonderful gifts) to consider as well (a new car, perhaps?) and yet now I know it was, and continues to be, my father’s greatest gift.
My dad loves without reservation. He gives sacrificially of his time and resources. He tells the truth (and this, evidently, is hard for some men).
He puts his family first. Always.
My divorce is no exception. Publicly, it’s my mom. She makes the 11 hour drive. Alone. She buys the groceries. She cooks the dinners. She taxis my children. But in return, she gets grandbaby hugs and kisses. She gets bedtime stories and nighttime cuddles.
My dad doesn’t get that. He gets worries and high blood pressure and waiting. My dad is sacrificing in ways that, until recently, I had completely overlooked.
This past weekend, we celebrated my Dad’s birthday. (Well, actually this past weekend, I celebrated the razorback’s victory in Omaha, but remember this was written in April). Just days before we left, I mentioned to my neighbor that we would be leaving for Arkansas. “My Dad hasn’t seen the kids since Christmas.” I said. She gave me this confused look and said, “Your Dad? I thought he was dead.” I burst out laughing. (Which, whatever, I guess isn’t really that funny). But still, it kind of was.
She thought he was dead. And evidently, she’s not the only one. My neighbors assumed that my mother had the freedom to travel because she was a widow. Only, she’s not. She’s married to a generous and unassuming man whose sacrifices are so hidden; so private, that my friends think he’s dead.
Only he’s not. And it was time for his birthday.
Time, in fact, for presents; a pair of jeans from my 98 year old mammaw (who, incidentally, recently decided she wanted to “just see” if she could still drive. Since she’s not even supposed to walk to the mail box, you can imagine how the driving thing ended. My dad now has her car keys); two western shirts from my mother; horse supplies from my sister; a crafty-block-thing with his business logo that I learned how to make on Pinterest (impressive, I know!) and a copy of Love Wins by Rob Bell for the Sunday School class that he teachers. Oh, and pictures of grandchildren.
What? He’s hard to buy for.
The next morning, he put on his Wranglers, buttoned up his western shirt, grabbed the fishing poles, and horse supplies and with four of his five grandchildren in tow, saddled up the horses for a day of what I call “being there.” My dad shows up. My dad follows through. My dad, sorry to be so cliché, totally rocks!
The greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother. That’s my dad.
But what about my children? I hate to go negative when I’m trying to love on my dad for Father’s day, but it is an obvious question as I spend this day alone. Without my father. Without theirs.
Of course, I also hate to go negative since I have so many of you who “lovingly” like to send me messages hiding behind the Christian mask, speaking of respect and class and God’s law, but as I was reminded this morning in church, we don’t have to hide our emotions from God. The pastor spoke of the Psalms being “undisciplined” as David cries out his prayers to God. I am Southern. I am good at pretending. I am good at swallowing emotion and only saying things that are appropriate or expressing what I know others want to hear. But God doesn’t expect that. He doesn’t want fake. The pastor went on to say if we are to learn how to pray and cry out to God in our deepest pain, we only need to look to the Psalms and we can hear God say, “Bring it. Bring whatcha got.” We don’t have to dress it up for God. Therefore, I’m not going to dress it up for you.
What about my children? Well, I could joke (although some of you don’t seem to like that either) and say that it’s a fair assumption that I don’t have my mom’s plaque about a father’s greatest gift hanging up in my kitchen. Wait, actually that’s not a joke. I really don’t have the plaque. I do, however, have one that says, “It’s never too late to live HAPPILY ever after.” (What? OK, so I’m a little taken with Pinterest).
And so what about my children? What about their mom?
Jesus. We fall into the arms of Jesus. We fall into the arms of our heavenly father and we know.
He holds.
Happy Father’s Day!
(Small note: this was written in April. My mom spent a great deal of time here in January and February during what I call the “crisis” months. She is no longer here and she doesn’t and hasn’t ever “lived” with us…. a point I make for the purposes of anyone who would choose to use this blog against me.) :)
Growing up, I remember a small plaque that hung in our kitchen. It read, “The greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother.” At the time, I was certain there were some other gifts (some equally wonderful gifts) to consider as well (a new car, perhaps?) and yet now I know it was, and continues to be, my father’s greatest gift.
My dad loves without reservation. He gives sacrificially of his time and resources. He tells the truth (and this, evidently, is hard for some men).
He puts his family first. Always.
My divorce is no exception. Publicly, it’s my mom. She makes the 11 hour drive. Alone. She buys the groceries. She cooks the dinners. She taxis my children. But in return, she gets grandbaby hugs and kisses. She gets bedtime stories and nighttime cuddles.
My dad doesn’t get that. He gets worries and high blood pressure and waiting. My dad is sacrificing in ways that, until recently, I had completely overlooked.
This past weekend, we celebrated my Dad’s birthday. (Well, actually this past weekend, I celebrated the razorback’s victory in Omaha, but remember this was written in April). Just days before we left, I mentioned to my neighbor that we would be leaving for Arkansas. “My Dad hasn’t seen the kids since Christmas.” I said. She gave me this confused look and said, “Your Dad? I thought he was dead.” I burst out laughing. (Which, whatever, I guess isn’t really that funny). But still, it kind of was.
She thought he was dead. And evidently, she’s not the only one. My neighbors assumed that my mother had the freedom to travel because she was a widow. Only, she’s not. She’s married to a generous and unassuming man whose sacrifices are so hidden; so private, that my friends think he’s dead.
Only he’s not. And it was time for his birthday.
Time, in fact, for presents; a pair of jeans from my 98 year old mammaw (who, incidentally, recently decided she wanted to “just see” if she could still drive. Since she’s not even supposed to walk to the mail box, you can imagine how the driving thing ended. My dad now has her car keys); two western shirts from my mother; horse supplies from my sister; a crafty-block-thing with his business logo that I learned how to make on Pinterest (impressive, I know!) and a copy of Love Wins by Rob Bell for the Sunday School class that he teachers. Oh, and pictures of grandchildren.
What? He’s hard to buy for.
The next morning, he put on his Wranglers, buttoned up his western shirt, grabbed the fishing poles, and horse supplies and with four of his five grandchildren in tow, saddled up the horses for a day of what I call “being there.” My dad shows up. My dad follows through. My dad, sorry to be so cliché, totally rocks!
The greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother. That’s my dad.
But what about my children? I hate to go negative when I’m trying to love on my dad for Father’s day, but it is an obvious question as I spend this day alone. Without my father. Without theirs.
Of course, I also hate to go negative since I have so many of you who “lovingly” like to send me messages hiding behind the Christian mask, speaking of respect and class and God’s law, but as I was reminded this morning in church, we don’t have to hide our emotions from God. The pastor spoke of the Psalms being “undisciplined” as David cries out his prayers to God. I am Southern. I am good at pretending. I am good at swallowing emotion and only saying things that are appropriate or expressing what I know others want to hear. But God doesn’t expect that. He doesn’t want fake. The pastor went on to say if we are to learn how to pray and cry out to God in our deepest pain, we only need to look to the Psalms and we can hear God say, “Bring it. Bring whatcha got.” We don’t have to dress it up for God. Therefore, I’m not going to dress it up for you.
What about my children? Well, I could joke (although some of you don’t seem to like that either) and say that it’s a fair assumption that I don’t have my mom’s plaque about a father’s greatest gift hanging up in my kitchen. Wait, actually that’s not a joke. I really don’t have the plaque. I do, however, have one that says, “It’s never too late to live HAPPILY ever after.” (What? OK, so I’m a little taken with Pinterest).
And so what about my children? What about their mom?
Jesus. We fall into the arms of Jesus. We fall into the arms of our heavenly father and we know.
He holds.
Happy Father’s Day!
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
God Hates Divorce. I get it. Read a new verse, already!
The kitchen table. That’s where it happened. Isn’t that where it always happens? Where the walls come down? Where the truth comes spilling out? Where the tears and the sweet tea and the barbeque all run together?
In the south, we gather around the table. We do kitchen-table talk. People make fun of my Mother because she tends to over-do. But that’s what Southern hostesses do….they over-do. If you are invited to my Mother’s house for dinner, there will be a seat for you. At the table. We don’t do couches. We sure as heck don’t pick up drinks and mingle. We sit. We eat. We talk. There may be 4; there may be 44, but you will have a place. Some see it as fussy. Some see it as controlling. I know it as welcoming. She wants you to have a place; your own special place around the kitchen table. And she’ll do whatever it takes….which usually includes sending my Daddy to raid the fellowship hall at the Methodist Church.
And she did just that (raid fellowship hall, I mean) for a family gathering in honor and memory of my Aunt Ann. I hadn’t planned to attend. I couldn’t. I was already in Arkansas and I had to bring Coulter and Emma Claire back to Fremont, per my agreement. There was the 12 hour drive; a birthday party; a a baseball game; and….well, you see, I couldn’t go.
And then, in a moment, I could. And I did.
I brought my kiddos back to Nebraska. I assembled a basketball hoop. I celebrated, bunkin’-party style, my 7 year old’s birthday. I un-packed. I re-packed. I gassed up. I bought chocolate. I drove back home. (And I may or may not have used the kid’s DVD player to watch Footloose, and I may or may not have shaved 2 hours off the trip.)
And we were all there. The 1st time in almost 40 years; 16 cousins spanning 20 years; all gathered around the kitchen table. We shared our stories; our memories; our hearts. Over food, of course, I mean this is the South.
It happened slowly at first. One cousin asked. Another joined in to listen. We moved from mourning the dead to caring for the living. I answered her quietly at first. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Humiliated. Slowly, I realized I was talking to several cousins, then all of the cousins. Then my aunt Betty, oxygen tubes carrying life to her lungs, sang out, “Yes! Please talk to us! Your mom won’t tell us a damn thing!”
Laughter. Tears.
Before long I was sharing my story. And they were listening. Do you know, can you believe, that in this family of mine, no-one told me that God hates divorce. (DUH!) No-one asked me if we wanted to try counseling (DUH!) No-one told me that divorce is hard on children. (DUH!) No-one told me about God’s laws and what happens when we break them. (Hel-lo! Anybody heard of Jesus!) No-one said anything. They just listened. To my story.
My story.
We’re always told that there are two sides to every story, but that’s not true. There’s only your side. There’s only my side. In this moment, surround by family, no-one gave a shit (ake mushroom) about his story. It’s only my story.
Someone posted a picture on facebook recently that read:
What’s the difference between a Midwestern fairytale and a Southern fairytale?
A Midwestern fairy tale starts with, “Once upon a time.”
A Southern fairytale starts with, “Y’all aint gonna believe this shit! “
And that’s what this felt like.
"Gather round friends; gather round family ‘cause, Y’all aint gonna believe this shit."
I am getting divorced. There. I said it.
I am a Christian. God hates divorce. I get it. Please don’t feel as though you need to remind me. You won’t be the first. Divorce is hard on kids. Divorce is devastating. Yep, I got it. I see it. I live it. I know it. Divorce sucks the joy and the energy and the trust and the memories and it stomps all over your life. God hates divorce? Yeah, well so do l. Look up a new verse, already.
I was recently reminded (and not the nicest of ways) that, given the divorce rate, I’m not exactly the only one going through this. The meta-message? No big deal. You’re nothing special. Get up. Get over it. Move on. Suck. It. Up.
Thank you. I will try.
The truth? This is no fairytale. (I mean if it is, the storyline sucks!) But that’s ok. In a post-Eve world, a lot of things suck, but as Christians, we know how the story ends. And regardless of what today looked like (and I’ll just tell you…it looked ugly), I know there is a happy ending. That’s a promise of God.
Jesus is enough. Jesus is bigger than divorce and while I am devastated, I know that my children need Jesus even more than they need married parents. (Thanks to my dear friend for the reminder!) Beauty from ashes. God can redeem even this.
And finally, a little note to the Pharisees; a little advice to the judgers and the blamers and the gossips. Pick up your Bible. Re-read it. Jesus came. Jesus died. Jesus rose. And then he sat.
It is finished.
In the south, we gather around the table. We do kitchen-table talk. People make fun of my Mother because she tends to over-do. But that’s what Southern hostesses do….they over-do. If you are invited to my Mother’s house for dinner, there will be a seat for you. At the table. We don’t do couches. We sure as heck don’t pick up drinks and mingle. We sit. We eat. We talk. There may be 4; there may be 44, but you will have a place. Some see it as fussy. Some see it as controlling. I know it as welcoming. She wants you to have a place; your own special place around the kitchen table. And she’ll do whatever it takes….which usually includes sending my Daddy to raid the fellowship hall at the Methodist Church.
And she did just that (raid fellowship hall, I mean) for a family gathering in honor and memory of my Aunt Ann. I hadn’t planned to attend. I couldn’t. I was already in Arkansas and I had to bring Coulter and Emma Claire back to Fremont, per my agreement. There was the 12 hour drive; a birthday party; a a baseball game; and….well, you see, I couldn’t go.
And then, in a moment, I could. And I did.
I brought my kiddos back to Nebraska. I assembled a basketball hoop. I celebrated, bunkin’-party style, my 7 year old’s birthday. I un-packed. I re-packed. I gassed up. I bought chocolate. I drove back home. (And I may or may not have used the kid’s DVD player to watch Footloose, and I may or may not have shaved 2 hours off the trip.)
And we were all there. The 1st time in almost 40 years; 16 cousins spanning 20 years; all gathered around the kitchen table. We shared our stories; our memories; our hearts. Over food, of course, I mean this is the South.
It happened slowly at first. One cousin asked. Another joined in to listen. We moved from mourning the dead to caring for the living. I answered her quietly at first. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Humiliated. Slowly, I realized I was talking to several cousins, then all of the cousins. Then my aunt Betty, oxygen tubes carrying life to her lungs, sang out, “Yes! Please talk to us! Your mom won’t tell us a damn thing!”
Laughter. Tears.
Before long I was sharing my story. And they were listening. Do you know, can you believe, that in this family of mine, no-one told me that God hates divorce. (DUH!) No-one asked me if we wanted to try counseling (DUH!) No-one told me that divorce is hard on children. (DUH!) No-one told me about God’s laws and what happens when we break them. (Hel-lo! Anybody heard of Jesus!) No-one said anything. They just listened. To my story.
My story.
We’re always told that there are two sides to every story, but that’s not true. There’s only your side. There’s only my side. In this moment, surround by family, no-one gave a shit (ake mushroom) about his story. It’s only my story.
Someone posted a picture on facebook recently that read:
What’s the difference between a Midwestern fairytale and a Southern fairytale?
A Midwestern fairy tale starts with, “Once upon a time.”
A Southern fairytale starts with, “Y’all aint gonna believe this shit! “
And that’s what this felt like.
"Gather round friends; gather round family ‘cause, Y’all aint gonna believe this shit."
I am getting divorced. There. I said it.
I am a Christian. God hates divorce. I get it. Please don’t feel as though you need to remind me. You won’t be the first. Divorce is hard on kids. Divorce is devastating. Yep, I got it. I see it. I live it. I know it. Divorce sucks the joy and the energy and the trust and the memories and it stomps all over your life. God hates divorce? Yeah, well so do l. Look up a new verse, already.
I was recently reminded (and not the nicest of ways) that, given the divorce rate, I’m not exactly the only one going through this. The meta-message? No big deal. You’re nothing special. Get up. Get over it. Move on. Suck. It. Up.
Thank you. I will try.
The truth? This is no fairytale. (I mean if it is, the storyline sucks!) But that’s ok. In a post-Eve world, a lot of things suck, but as Christians, we know how the story ends. And regardless of what today looked like (and I’ll just tell you…it looked ugly), I know there is a happy ending. That’s a promise of God.
Jesus is enough. Jesus is bigger than divorce and while I am devastated, I know that my children need Jesus even more than they need married parents. (Thanks to my dear friend for the reminder!) Beauty from ashes. God can redeem even this.
And finally, a little note to the Pharisees; a little advice to the judgers and the blamers and the gossips. Pick up your Bible. Re-read it. Jesus came. Jesus died. Jesus rose. And then he sat.
It is finished.
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