Today marks the 20th anniversary of the church shooting I was at when I was 16. There's lots of local coverage about it. My old church has put out new videos about it. There was a special memorial service today for it.
The mantra that's been attached to this event is "God wastes nothing" and also "The darkness did not overcome the light". I'm not sure what they mean by this exactly. My life has been darkened, and death is so senseless. It's so positive a thing to say in the face of something so awful.
I don't mean to be snarky. Maybe I do mean to put some emotional distance between "Them" and "Me". I'm protective about the shooting. I thought I was an open book about my life until two years ago my counselor asked me how many times I'd sat down and told that story to someone from beginning to end.
Oh. Never.
Maybe I just can't relate, because they've moved on and I haven't. People are posting about how for a few years after the shooting they constantly looked for exits or jumped at the drop of a book, and how it may still occasionally happen. But I can't sleep at night because I'm afraid a crazed man is going to enter my house and murder me and my family. I'm not afraid of burglars. I'm afraid of men who can't be reasoned with. I sit in the corner of a restaurant next to the exit, my back always to the wall, scanning for suspicious characters. My anxiety builds in loud places, and instead of startling less at unexpected noises, I've worked hard at composing my face to hide the terror I know is unreasonable.
So I probably need to work on that.
I'm not Baptist anymore. I'm not even Protestant. And I skipped right over Catholic to the end of the Christian road: I am an Orthodox Christian. And there's something about it that rolls around in your heart differently; something that reminds me that Christianity has always been an eastern religion. I am someone who could be described as deeply devout, and I find refuge and comfort and clarity in the person of Christ. But I suspect that the way my Protestant friends and family frame this awful event and their own sufferings is at odds with how I experience them, and I want that to explain my resistance.
Honestly, though, as a feeble attempt to be courageous, I would have to admit that I relish anything that will give me distance from them and this shooting. I'm terrified of it overcoming me. I writhe in discomfort at the thought of looking again into the same eyes that I stared at when gunshots were ringing in our ears. I'm in pain imagining holding and hugging the same bodies that I held onto after we poured out of the church in confusion and stood on the lawns of houses while people ran back and forth all around us.
I will do anything to avoid this pain. I left my youth group not long after. I left my friends. I left my town. I left my state. I left it all. And I wonder now if I ever looked at this shooting again.
My counselor gave me homework in November of 2017: find someone you can tell your story to. All of it. Without measuring or posturing. As-is. As you experienced it and as you really feel about it now. I haven't done that still. The thought comes to me and I begin practicing what I will say. Then I feel overwhelmed. Ironically, though, it's not reliving the shooting itself that overwhelms me: it's the thought of reliving it in front of someone else.
It's no accident I am writing this here. It's all I can manage to do. The thought of being so intense, so emotional, so complicated, so messed up, so stubborn, so slow to heal, so unreasonable - in my mind, this amounts to someone who is essentially very difficult to love. I don't want to be unloveable. I don't want people to give up on me. I need them to stay. So my plan is to wait until this shooting makes sense to me, and then I will talk rationally, optimistically, joyfully - all of my shit sorted out just so. That is redemption. Someone who can talk about a shooting with composure, serenity, and wisdom.
It's obviously not working well for me. I'm ashamed of not having healed. Of being a mess. But I'm so tired of hiding as well. And so I think of my friends from way back when, from way back where, who share hope and healing and I hope wonderful things for them and for me. I am sad that I'm not there yet. But I'm here. I am talking. And I hope that is enough courage for today.
Sunday, September 15, 2019
Thursday, January 21, 2016
Love is Forgiveness
Aaron's away again on his sixth trip in 8 months, and I'm more than a little stressed and tired.
I don't sleep well when he's gone. I have to face my nighttime anxiety; my being overwhelmed being the sole caretaker of children; of being the only body receiving their never-ending touches; the only hands making dinner and sign papers; the only driver to take them to tennis lessons and back and forth to school; the only voice that reassures or disciplines.
If you remember, I couldn't even take care of my Love Avocado. So obviously it's even more draining to take care of three little humans. There's so much more on the line.
Sometimes when he's gone, I nail it. Usually at the front end of his trip of course. I remember that love is about choice, choosing to empty myself and pour it into them.
When 2:30 pm rolls around I feel a small bit of dread in the pit of my stomach. The witching hour (which is really 5 hours) has begun. On those good days, I'll smile even if I'm exhausted; I'll hug them even though I'd really like a hug; I'll listen even though I'd love to sit down with a friend myself. I'll cook dinner even though I DON'T WANNA.
This is progress for someone like me who struggles with Love Avocados.
Of course some of the time I lose it. I get nit picky, impatient and demanding. Dropping that almond on the floor and not picking it up is a breach of all that is good and right. Asking two questions in a row is a boulder I can't carry. And you giving the slightest indication you might not love what I cooked for dinner warrants the shooting-daggers Look From Mom.
The last 8 months I learned from experience what I'd already learned from reflection and counseling: Saying "I'm sorry, please forgive me" really are magical words. It show that I care and restores our relationship. It shows it was me, and not their lack of lovability, that's the problem. It establishes the standard of love they deserve, even if I failed at it. So I say I'm sorry. A lot. And try to do better.
I've learned that it's good to feel sorry and to say I'm sorry; and it's also good not to carry that guilt with me. Because I'm loved as well, and worthy of their love and their forgiveness.
And right now, sitting in this cushy chair in a coffeehouse with my Hot Buttered Scotch, I'm feeling grateful. Isn't it true that it's when people are gone we realize how much we love them, and when we're having a hard time our heart sometimes opens more to love those around us? It's a mystery to me, since these "sometimes" come and go.
It's easy to feel grateful, pensive and serene sitting in this coffeeshop, all alone. Maybe today will be a "sometimes" and this afternoon I'll have a patient smile for my children that lasts right up to snuggling at bedtime. If not, I'm grateful that forgiveness is just as much a part of loving and being loved as getting it right the first time.
I don't sleep well when he's gone. I have to face my nighttime anxiety; my being overwhelmed being the sole caretaker of children; of being the only body receiving their never-ending touches; the only hands making dinner and sign papers; the only driver to take them to tennis lessons and back and forth to school; the only voice that reassures or disciplines.
If you remember, I couldn't even take care of my Love Avocado. So obviously it's even more draining to take care of three little humans. There's so much more on the line.
Sometimes when he's gone, I nail it. Usually at the front end of his trip of course. I remember that love is about choice, choosing to empty myself and pour it into them.
When 2:30 pm rolls around I feel a small bit of dread in the pit of my stomach. The witching hour (which is really 5 hours) has begun. On those good days, I'll smile even if I'm exhausted; I'll hug them even though I'd really like a hug; I'll listen even though I'd love to sit down with a friend myself. I'll cook dinner even though I DON'T WANNA.
This is progress for someone like me who struggles with Love Avocados.
Of course some of the time I lose it. I get nit picky, impatient and demanding. Dropping that almond on the floor and not picking it up is a breach of all that is good and right. Asking two questions in a row is a boulder I can't carry. And you giving the slightest indication you might not love what I cooked for dinner warrants the shooting-daggers Look From Mom.
The last 8 months I learned from experience what I'd already learned from reflection and counseling: Saying "I'm sorry, please forgive me" really are magical words. It show that I care and restores our relationship. It shows it was me, and not their lack of lovability, that's the problem. It establishes the standard of love they deserve, even if I failed at it. So I say I'm sorry. A lot. And try to do better.
I've learned that it's good to feel sorry and to say I'm sorry; and it's also good not to carry that guilt with me. Because I'm loved as well, and worthy of their love and their forgiveness.
And right now, sitting in this cushy chair in a coffeehouse with my Hot Buttered Scotch, I'm feeling grateful. Isn't it true that it's when people are gone we realize how much we love them, and when we're having a hard time our heart sometimes opens more to love those around us? It's a mystery to me, since these "sometimes" come and go.
It's easy to feel grateful, pensive and serene sitting in this coffeeshop, all alone. Maybe today will be a "sometimes" and this afternoon I'll have a patient smile for my children that lasts right up to snuggling at bedtime. If not, I'm grateful that forgiveness is just as much a part of loving and being loved as getting it right the first time.
Monday, November 09, 2015
College Reunion
This morning I realized that back in December of last year I passed right over the 10 year mark of my graduation from the University of Oklahoma. I loved that place and I loved majoring in Letters. I loved almost everything about OU - walking through its beautiful campus, my challenging coursework, the library, the professors - but what I loved most was finally finding a place that embraced my endless barrage of WHY?
It was never okay to relentlessly ask why. Teachers - and almost any authority figure growing up - didn't see it as curiosity; it was obstinance. I can't count how many times I was accused of being argumentative when often I just wanted to understand, to dig deeper.
But the Classics and Letters department loved it. And Dr. Rufus Fears especially. He taught my capstone course that last semester in the fall of 2004. He became my mentor in a way. I would stop by once a week or so with a long list of questions I had after his lectures. He would wrestle with all my questions, and always matched my energy and earnestness for knowing. Even when I stumped him with a question that challenged some of his core beliefs, he didn't retreat or attack like almost everyone else - he was intrigued. He encouraged me to pursue the answer. It was such a validating experience!
I ran into him again several years later in 2009, after I'd married, started a family and moved to OKC. I was a stay at home mom with two little ones, but went out one night by myself to browse through Full Circle Bookstore. And I heard Dr. Fears' voice booming from across the store. He was holding a Great Books lecture series for senior citizens. I snuck in and talked with him afterward and he invited me to come back each week to listen to the series. It was so much fun. I hadn't been in that mode for years and years. I was stuck changing diapers, cooking meals and staring at piles of laundry. I missed college so much.
At the end of the last lecture, he sat down and talked with me for about 15 minutes - none of it about academics or abstract concepts. He wanted to talk about my family. My life now. He wanted to convince me (probably looking tired and adrift) how what I was doing now - as difficult, boring and tedious as it was - is so much more important than the work I did before, or even the work he was doing now. He said that Freedom (because I'm sure he always thought of it with a capital F) was grown in our homes. That raising and loving our children with love and truth and goodness and beauty was what would save our culture. That loving our children was alone the most lofty and noble accomplishment for a human being.
And that too, was such a validating experience. I will always be grateful for Dr. Fears and the entire time I spent at OU.
It was never okay to relentlessly ask why. Teachers - and almost any authority figure growing up - didn't see it as curiosity; it was obstinance. I can't count how many times I was accused of being argumentative when often I just wanted to understand, to dig deeper.
But the Classics and Letters department loved it. And Dr. Rufus Fears especially. He taught my capstone course that last semester in the fall of 2004. He became my mentor in a way. I would stop by once a week or so with a long list of questions I had after his lectures. He would wrestle with all my questions, and always matched my energy and earnestness for knowing. Even when I stumped him with a question that challenged some of his core beliefs, he didn't retreat or attack like almost everyone else - he was intrigued. He encouraged me to pursue the answer. It was such a validating experience!
I ran into him again several years later in 2009, after I'd married, started a family and moved to OKC. I was a stay at home mom with two little ones, but went out one night by myself to browse through Full Circle Bookstore. And I heard Dr. Fears' voice booming from across the store. He was holding a Great Books lecture series for senior citizens. I snuck in and talked with him afterward and he invited me to come back each week to listen to the series. It was so much fun. I hadn't been in that mode for years and years. I was stuck changing diapers, cooking meals and staring at piles of laundry. I missed college so much.
At the end of the last lecture, he sat down and talked with me for about 15 minutes - none of it about academics or abstract concepts. He wanted to talk about my family. My life now. He wanted to convince me (probably looking tired and adrift) how what I was doing now - as difficult, boring and tedious as it was - is so much more important than the work I did before, or even the work he was doing now. He said that Freedom (because I'm sure he always thought of it with a capital F) was grown in our homes. That raising and loving our children with love and truth and goodness and beauty was what would save our culture. That loving our children was alone the most lofty and noble accomplishment for a human being.
And that too, was such a validating experience. I will always be grateful for Dr. Fears and the entire time I spent at OU.
Sunday, April 05, 2015
Jason's Deli Three Bean Salad - Inspired Recipe
I brought a three bean salad inspired by Jason's Deli. It's completely Lenten (for oil days), and I wanted to type this up before I forget what I did. :)
1 can dark red kidney beans, drained and rinsed
1 can garbanzo beans/chick peas, drained and rinsed
1 small bag (~1 lb) frozen lima beans
1 red bell pepper, chopped to size of beans
1 yellow bell pepper, chopped to size of beans
1 stalk celery, chopped to size of beans
1 small red onion, chopped1 cup cilantro, stems removed and roughly chopped
~1 cup Italian dressing homemade or store bought
Italian Dressing:
1/2 - 2/3 cup olive oil
1/4 - 1/3 cup red wine vinegar
1 1/2 - 2 tsp salt
1 generous pinch each dried basil, dried oregano, dried Italian seasonings (ground slightly between fingers)
Pinch ground cayenne pepper
1 tsp each garlic powder, onion powder
1 tsp sugar
Mix all. If you can, let it marinate overnight, stirring/shaking occasionally.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
My Love Avocados
Today I'm fascinated
with Fiddle Leaf Figs.
Wherever we’ve lived, I’ve
always thought that my house needed more things on the walls and more live
plants. But it doesn’t happen. I'm usually indecisive about my style and struggle with settling on something
(anything!). And although I buy houseplants,
I inevitably kill each one of them.
Just after Aaron and I married, I had a "love avocado" seed that I wanted to sprout. I was going to grow it into a beautiful indoor houseplant and was ridiculously sentimental about it. After a year of that, and several failed attempts along with a few "love avocado" replacements, I gave up. Aaron might not know this, but I was a little disturbed by the experience and I'm grateful that it didn't turn out to be a metaphor.
Just after Aaron and I married, I had a "love avocado" seed that I wanted to sprout. I was going to grow it into a beautiful indoor houseplant and was ridiculously sentimental about it. After a year of that, and several failed attempts along with a few "love avocado" replacements, I gave up. Aaron might not know this, but I was a little disturbed by the experience and I'm grateful that it didn't turn out to be a metaphor.
But I worry about that. I do get bored easily. I have difficulty even seeing the external world and staying in touch with that reality. I don't intrinsically feel compelled to take care of
It's grueling for me to wrench myself out of my inner world and come to the surface. And when I do, I realize that, Ohh, now I see that you have no clean clothes to wear, and you need that form signed, and there are no dinner plans and you have no idea what is happening next...And of course, you need to know someone will faithfully care for you and not just care about you.
We are having a conversation on Facebook about personality profiling, and I heard another story of a woman who shifted into a different category once she became a mother. I'm sure there are so many reasons for that, and it happened to me as well. I think that marriage and motherhood awakened my weak F (Feeling) and hibernating J (Judging) traits that can put me in touch with people and give me clarity and resolve to take action on their behalf.
Love does that, and I hope it does that more for me. I don't mind being subpar in those areas, because it allows me to thrive in the other complementary sphere of abstract thought and conceptualization, which is who I am. But I love my family. And that means I need to move. I am trying to dig deeper into my J- and F-ness. I want to find a balance (which is the goal of being human, I think) that will reassure my family that I am committed to them, even if the execution is comically poor.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Lay Down Your Weapons
Last night I listened to Aaron read a chapter from "The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe" to the kids at bedtime, and I was struck when he read: "Lucy and Susan held their breaths waiting for Aslan’s roar and his spring upon his enemies. But it never came."
I used to muse on the humility of Christ in letting all those terrible things happen to him for our sake. But now it feels tied to me, to all the interactions I have each day with others.
Back in 2009, I heard a phrase in a short video by Dan Allender on the topic of learning to fight well in marriage. Right off the bat, the most interesting bit is that he didn't call us not to fight. You have to fight to go deeper into relationship. You have to lean into conflict, but you do that by laying down your weapons. That's the phrase that feels seared into my brain and pops up when I'm tempted to bulldoze others: "lay down your weapons".
That was probably the beginning of my bent toward pacifism. I began to wonder, how could we Americans justify imperialism and wars and force-feeding "democracy" around the world? Love doesn't force itself. Ever.
Then I started facing the reality that when I fought with people - when I disagreed or was confronted - I always armed myself. I would prepare to do battle with what I had available: words, logic, rhetoric, quick-thinking and knowledge. Other people have wit, sarcasm, physical strength, guilt manipulation, withdrawal of affection, anger.
The object was to win, not to love. My priest says that in "every interaction your objective is to love the other person". I've learned that hardly ever means enlightening them by force of an argument. The forcing of ourselves upon others is not love, it is conquering. And it serves only ourselves and our ego; it numbs our pain, it displaces our anger and momentarily quiets our fears.
So I'm trying to be an intellectual pacifist when I feel my heart snarl or gasp at something someone has done to me, or has said that stings. I want to be like Aslan, and save my roar for the protection of others, not myself. The great deception happens when I believe I'm protecting others when really I'm doing battle for my own self. When my ego cannot handle being spoken to in a condescending tone, or when someone has been harsh with their response, or refused to engage with me on any sensible level.
This doesn't mean I do not have boundaries, and it doesn't mean I will not protect others. But I believe that weapons should only be used as a last resort for the sake of loving others. What is that fine line of protecting others with some necessary "casualties", and losing the good attempted due to a lack of concern for the harm of others caught in the line of fire?
I don't know. Lord have mercy on me, a sinner, and grant me wisdom to learn this.
I used to muse on the humility of Christ in letting all those terrible things happen to him for our sake. But now it feels tied to me, to all the interactions I have each day with others.
Back in 2009, I heard a phrase in a short video by Dan Allender on the topic of learning to fight well in marriage. Right off the bat, the most interesting bit is that he didn't call us not to fight. You have to fight to go deeper into relationship. You have to lean into conflict, but you do that by laying down your weapons. That's the phrase that feels seared into my brain and pops up when I'm tempted to bulldoze others: "lay down your weapons".
That was probably the beginning of my bent toward pacifism. I began to wonder, how could we Americans justify imperialism and wars and force-feeding "democracy" around the world? Love doesn't force itself. Ever.
Then I started facing the reality that when I fought with people - when I disagreed or was confronted - I always armed myself. I would prepare to do battle with what I had available: words, logic, rhetoric, quick-thinking and knowledge. Other people have wit, sarcasm, physical strength, guilt manipulation, withdrawal of affection, anger.
The object was to win, not to love. My priest says that in "every interaction your objective is to love the other person". I've learned that hardly ever means enlightening them by force of an argument. The forcing of ourselves upon others is not love, it is conquering. And it serves only ourselves and our ego; it numbs our pain, it displaces our anger and momentarily quiets our fears.
So I'm trying to be an intellectual pacifist when I feel my heart snarl or gasp at something someone has done to me, or has said that stings. I want to be like Aslan, and save my roar for the protection of others, not myself. The great deception happens when I believe I'm protecting others when really I'm doing battle for my own self. When my ego cannot handle being spoken to in a condescending tone, or when someone has been harsh with their response, or refused to engage with me on any sensible level.
This doesn't mean I do not have boundaries, and it doesn't mean I will not protect others. But I believe that weapons should only be used as a last resort for the sake of loving others. What is that fine line of protecting others with some necessary "casualties", and losing the good attempted due to a lack of concern for the harm of others caught in the line of fire?
I don't know. Lord have mercy on me, a sinner, and grant me wisdom to learn this.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Thankfulness is a Fickle Fairy
Some days I'm driving down the road, and glancing at the people next to me, shudder to think of stepping into their lives. Some days they look so sad, exhausted by life. As if they dread their destination or maybe are grieving because of where they're coming from. Some days they look like drones or sheep, going along mindlessly, asleep in their wakefulness.
Other times I look over and think that we all have good times and we all experience sorrow, but that our own joys are the sweetest. I wonder if this is me on my healthiest, balanced days? I see some of their sorrow, some of their weariness, but I catch more of their smiles, or their heads bobbing to the music. I see them chattering on the phone or with the kids, like busy ants, content to be buzzing along, building their lives and finding pleasure as they go. On these days, I don't pity them, but I don't envy them either. I see them as the perfect part in this universe that somehow adds up to a whole working harmony.
But then there are days, like today, when I am driving down the road and see the car next to me, and wish with all my heart that I could switch places with them. Some days all I see is an empty backseat that mocks me with its quiet. My backseat is full of three humans who are all fighting for their place, for my attention and energy and time, and have decided that using their loudest, most annoying voice is the way to get it.
Some days, like today, every other driver I get a good look at is a woman with perfectly styled hair, perfectly applied make-up, stylish, quality clothes and well-chosen accessories - all wrapped up in a shiny, new car. A woman I envy. While I, with my staticky, disheveled hair and pudgy, shiny face am awkwardly making my way in this dirty mini-van.
I don't even care about keeping up with the Jones' most of the time. But today I do.
Three minutes later, though, Michael Jackson comes on the radio; the clouds lift and we're smiling and dancing in our seats. I feel so grateful for these people to be silly with, to be free with and to belong to. They're my people and it's just us, a small part of our little community of friends and family, all perfectly placed in the world.
Other times I look over and think that we all have good times and we all experience sorrow, but that our own joys are the sweetest. I wonder if this is me on my healthiest, balanced days? I see some of their sorrow, some of their weariness, but I catch more of their smiles, or their heads bobbing to the music. I see them chattering on the phone or with the kids, like busy ants, content to be buzzing along, building their lives and finding pleasure as they go. On these days, I don't pity them, but I don't envy them either. I see them as the perfect part in this universe that somehow adds up to a whole working harmony.
But then there are days, like today, when I am driving down the road and see the car next to me, and wish with all my heart that I could switch places with them. Some days all I see is an empty backseat that mocks me with its quiet. My backseat is full of three humans who are all fighting for their place, for my attention and energy and time, and have decided that using their loudest, most annoying voice is the way to get it.
Some days, like today, every other driver I get a good look at is a woman with perfectly styled hair, perfectly applied make-up, stylish, quality clothes and well-chosen accessories - all wrapped up in a shiny, new car. A woman I envy. While I, with my staticky, disheveled hair and pudgy, shiny face am awkwardly making my way in this dirty mini-van.
I don't even care about keeping up with the Jones' most of the time. But today I do.
Three minutes later, though, Michael Jackson comes on the radio; the clouds lift and we're smiling and dancing in our seats. I feel so grateful for these people to be silly with, to be free with and to belong to. They're my people and it's just us, a small part of our little community of friends and family, all perfectly placed in the world.
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