Christine writes, "People who knew her would say, "Your mother loved you and she was proud of you." That made me smile. My mom always wanted to live on a ranch with horses and chickens. If I could have a do-over, I would take her to live her final days on a ranch. I can see her smiling now."
With Her and Without Her p.107
Do you ever wish you could have done something specifically for or with your mother before she passed away? I do. I wish I could have played my cello for her. I wish I could have brought my big beautiful "oversized violin" into her bedroom, and played while she rested. Oh, wait a second. I didn't play so well. I knew a few pieces, but the truth is, she might not have enjoyed what I was able to do at that time, but the fact still remains, I WISH. I know I COULD have played for her, but I didn't. I thought about it, but the approval-seeking child in me surfaced and convinced the level-headed adult that it would be wrong, even torturous to give her anything but THE BEST. Unfortunately, my mother only heard about my cello. She never heard me play it.
Wouldn't it be delightful if I could sit here and tell you that I've honed my skills, I can now play with the ease of Yo-Yo Ma?! Ha! I wish! The truth is, I've seldom had (ahem... TAKEN) the opportunity to hone my skills on the cello. I played for a while, but I progressively let other priorities take precedence over practice, and today my big beautiful cello sits untouched.
You may be wondering why I'm writing about my unfulfilled wish and my unplayed cello. So let me get to the point. I didn't play for my mother when the opportunity was there. I didn't stop playing immediately after her death, it just became one more thing to do. So now in my craft room sits an unplayed instrument. I plan to remedy that, and here's how: I can no longer play to my mom, but I can still play and honor her at the same time. My plan is to pick up where I left off. I'll find a teacher, dust off my bow and start playing again. It won't be easy, but "inch by inch will be a cinch." It'll be years before I can give Mr. Ma a run for his money, but it shouldn't take too long before I'm ready to play a little something on my own. That might mean playing for family members or friends, but I'm willing to do it. Furthermore, I'm going to do this in memory of my mom.
What about you? Is there something you'll consider doing to honor your mom's memory? Challenge yourself, and let us encourage you in your endeavor!
Monday, July 29, 2013
Friday, July 19, 2013
A Moving Message
"Who and what we are, are directly related to our life experiences. With some exceptions, our mothers shaped our lives and set the standard for who we are and what it means to be a woman. " With Her And Without Her p 90-1
I received a heart-wrenching email last week. It was written in response to my book, With Her & Without Her. The sender began the email by saying that the book stirred a lot of emotions in her. She wrote a beautiful letter, however, it wasn't about the book, it was about her life. It was about a childhood filled with pain and heartache. It was a letter about a little girl who loved her mother so much that in spite of the emotional and physical abuse, she did whatever a child could do to help and protect her mother. The letter described the child's anguish upon witnessing her mother being brutally beaten, and later the teenager who cleaned her alcoholic mother's vomit off the apartment stairwell. The email takes a brief sigh of relief when she recalls riding the bus every weekend to visit her grandmother, where she found safety and love.
The question that rings in my head is, how do those children survive? What does it do to a child's heart, her self-worth, and her love for others when the person who is supposed to shelter and protect her is her abuser or else turning a blind eye to another abuser? I can't say that I understand the psychology of it all. I don't know how children survive, sometimes even thrive later on in life, but I know it happens. I also know that there is guilt associated with being abused. Children are often told "You asked for it", when "it" is the thing they most fear. I know that it is often the case that the abused has to bury the memories of the past, so that they can see a future life. Often that burial means walking away from the parent who did not physically hurt them, but did nothing to rescue them. Sometimes life with her has to end in order for without her to begin.
The young lady who wrote the email is an example of an adult child who has to live without her mother although her mother is alive. That does not mean she no longer loves her mother. On the contrary, living without her could be the best way to express her love. While it may be controversial, it is important to understand that a toxic environment does not foster health and growth. If healing is to happen, it must happen in the heart of the abused.
In addition, there are often feelings of grief that must be worked through. The abused may grieve the loss of the mother they never had. There may be anger, guilt, depression, trust, and self-esteem issues that plague adult children of abusers. There are support groups like Al-Anon, Families Anonymous and Adult Children of Alcoholics who have trained counselors ready to assist adult children of alcoholic, drug addicts and other abusers.
I applaud the young lady who wrote the email. I believe reaching out is an enormous step to recovering and reclaiming her life. To her and to millions like her I quote the weeping prophet who said,
I received a heart-wrenching email last week. It was written in response to my book, With Her & Without Her. The sender began the email by saying that the book stirred a lot of emotions in her. She wrote a beautiful letter, however, it wasn't about the book, it was about her life. It was about a childhood filled with pain and heartache. It was a letter about a little girl who loved her mother so much that in spite of the emotional and physical abuse, she did whatever a child could do to help and protect her mother. The letter described the child's anguish upon witnessing her mother being brutally beaten, and later the teenager who cleaned her alcoholic mother's vomit off the apartment stairwell. The email takes a brief sigh of relief when she recalls riding the bus every weekend to visit her grandmother, where she found safety and love.
The question that rings in my head is, how do those children survive? What does it do to a child's heart, her self-worth, and her love for others when the person who is supposed to shelter and protect her is her abuser or else turning a blind eye to another abuser? I can't say that I understand the psychology of it all. I don't know how children survive, sometimes even thrive later on in life, but I know it happens. I also know that there is guilt associated with being abused. Children are often told "You asked for it", when "it" is the thing they most fear. I know that it is often the case that the abused has to bury the memories of the past, so that they can see a future life. Often that burial means walking away from the parent who did not physically hurt them, but did nothing to rescue them. Sometimes life with her has to end in order for without her to begin.
The young lady who wrote the email is an example of an adult child who has to live without her mother although her mother is alive. That does not mean she no longer loves her mother. On the contrary, living without her could be the best way to express her love. While it may be controversial, it is important to understand that a toxic environment does not foster health and growth. If healing is to happen, it must happen in the heart of the abused.
In addition, there are often feelings of grief that must be worked through. The abused may grieve the loss of the mother they never had. There may be anger, guilt, depression, trust, and self-esteem issues that plague adult children of abusers. There are support groups like Al-Anon, Families Anonymous and Adult Children of Alcoholics who have trained counselors ready to assist adult children of alcoholic, drug addicts and other abusers.
I applaud the young lady who wrote the email. I believe reaching out is an enormous step to recovering and reclaiming her life. To her and to millions like her I quote the weeping prophet who said,
I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I will remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, "The Lord is my portion. Therefore I will wait for Him."
Lamentations 3:19-24
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Sisters & Friends
Several years ago a friend and I were taking some much needed time to catch up on one another's life. In the course of conversation she casually mentioned that her mom had passed away. In fact, she stated it so nonchalantly that I responded in like manner. My "I'm sorry to hear that" reply went out, and we continued on with the discussion of other events. I had no thought or clue that her casual tone was masking her inner pain.
Earlier this year she and I had the opportunity to revisit that conversation.
When we had that first conversation, my friend's family lived on the east coast while she lived 3000 miles away, on the west. She had flown home to assist her father in caring for her ailing mother, who was rapidly declining. She witnessed her mother's passing, and stayed there until her return to California was imperative. Returning meant jumping back into the swing of things, which included two children and a myriad of other responsibilities at home and work. In her mind, our time together was a way of escaping her world. It was not a time to invite me into the chaos of her misery. When she mentioned her mother's death, my response was what she expected it would be. Knowing that my mother was still alive, she didn't expect me to understand what she was experiencing. She silenced her grief so as not to make me uncomfortable with the anguish she was feeling. When she briefly referred to her mother's passing as if it was a non-momentous occurrence, she thought she was doing both of us a favor.
There's a section in my book entitled "Assessing Reality". There, I asked the question, How are you? I also addressed the need we have to be Fine, Better, Back to Normal...etc after our mothers have passed. "As women, we are traditionally the nurtures, caregivers, counselors, and planners. We often find it difficult to give ourselves permission or opportunity to step away from our roles for an extended time, even when we hurt." With Her & Without Her pg. 88 It's as if we're searching for an end to grief by making it an insignificant part of life. In reality, we may feel unequipped to handle what life has thrown at us. It is important to know that when our mothers passed away, we automatically became a part of a world wide sisterhood. We belong to a chain of women who have lost the most significant key to who we are and who we will be.
Although I was not a part of that chain of sisters when my friend's mom died, I was all she had. 3000 miles separated her from her family, and she needed a sister. The problem was, she tried to mask her grief. Leaving her everyday environment and taking time for herself was a wise choice, but it's important to remember that escaping doesn't make the pain go away. There are occasions during grief recovery that we need to be available to our own feelings. Being available to our own feelings means letting go of our need to keep our emotions on lock down. It may mean letting someone else in on our pain. After all, a burden shared is a burden divided.
I believe it is important that we look for those teachable moments in life. As women who have experienced the loss of our mothers, we have the opportunity to touch the lives of those who are links in this chain of sisters as well as those who are not. Talking about our loss, our pain and the desire to regain normalcy could very well provide just the needed insight for a woman who is yet to experience that same kind of grief.
We do not all grieve the same way. Nor do we all have the same desire or need to talk about our grief and the emotions that accompany it. It's therefore vital that we participate in healthy grief so that we can rediscover what normal feels like. Normal does not negate our loss, on the contrary, it will help us embrace it.
Earlier this year she and I had the opportunity to revisit that conversation.
When we had that first conversation, my friend's family lived on the east coast while she lived 3000 miles away, on the west. She had flown home to assist her father in caring for her ailing mother, who was rapidly declining. She witnessed her mother's passing, and stayed there until her return to California was imperative. Returning meant jumping back into the swing of things, which included two children and a myriad of other responsibilities at home and work. In her mind, our time together was a way of escaping her world. It was not a time to invite me into the chaos of her misery. When she mentioned her mother's death, my response was what she expected it would be. Knowing that my mother was still alive, she didn't expect me to understand what she was experiencing. She silenced her grief so as not to make me uncomfortable with the anguish she was feeling. When she briefly referred to her mother's passing as if it was a non-momentous occurrence, she thought she was doing both of us a favor.
There's a section in my book entitled "Assessing Reality". There, I asked the question, How are you? I also addressed the need we have to be Fine, Better, Back to Normal...etc after our mothers have passed. "As women, we are traditionally the nurtures, caregivers, counselors, and planners. We often find it difficult to give ourselves permission or opportunity to step away from our roles for an extended time, even when we hurt." With Her & Without Her pg. 88 It's as if we're searching for an end to grief by making it an insignificant part of life. In reality, we may feel unequipped to handle what life has thrown at us. It is important to know that when our mothers passed away, we automatically became a part of a world wide sisterhood. We belong to a chain of women who have lost the most significant key to who we are and who we will be.
Although I was not a part of that chain of sisters when my friend's mom died, I was all she had. 3000 miles separated her from her family, and she needed a sister. The problem was, she tried to mask her grief. Leaving her everyday environment and taking time for herself was a wise choice, but it's important to remember that escaping doesn't make the pain go away. There are occasions during grief recovery that we need to be available to our own feelings. Being available to our own feelings means letting go of our need to keep our emotions on lock down. It may mean letting someone else in on our pain. After all, a burden shared is a burden divided.
I believe it is important that we look for those teachable moments in life. As women who have experienced the loss of our mothers, we have the opportunity to touch the lives of those who are links in this chain of sisters as well as those who are not. Talking about our loss, our pain and the desire to regain normalcy could very well provide just the needed insight for a woman who is yet to experience that same kind of grief.
We do not all grieve the same way. Nor do we all have the same desire or need to talk about our grief and the emotions that accompany it. It's therefore vital that we participate in healthy grief so that we can rediscover what normal feels like. Normal does not negate our loss, on the contrary, it will help us embrace it.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Old Friends Part 2
Last week I told you about "Betty." Here's the story about my friendship with "Amelia".
I don't know the difference between a Chrysler and a Ford, but whatever it was, I often saw it gliding down my street at about 15 miles an hour. It looked like something out of a 1960s television show. You know, the kind of car you might have seen on Leave It to Beaver. The driver's head was visible from the side window, but could barely be seen over the steering wheel. She casually waved to me just before she turned into her driveway across the street and three houses down from mine. The white house with red brick siding and large picture window was designed much like my 1940s house. I watched her park that big ol' white "tank" in her one car garage. I was sure she'd knock the side mirrors off or scrape the tale-end, but she manipulated that car with flawless precision. Moments later the garage door closed, and that was that. Some days she would go from the garage to her front yard, reposition her water hose, then disappear into the garage again. That was the extent of our contact... for about two years. Not meeting Amelia wasn't intentional. I hadn't given it a second thought. Actually, I hadn't given it a FIRST thought. I was fine watching her drive by, wave and park.
I was working in the yard one afternoon, when I spotted "the tank" approaching. I waved, but to my surprise, she slowed down, and stopped in the middle of the street. I saw her glasses first, then I saw her face. She looked to be around 80 years old. Her hair was a precisely measured combination of dark grey and white. Her small frail looking finger beckoned me. It was the way her pink lipstick moved that clued me in on the fact that she was saying something to me. I found myself standing in the middle of the street, my head lowered so that I could understand her quiet raspy voice. "My name is Amelia" she said, over enunciating the syllables, "AH-MEE-LE-AH". She must have picked up on the Huh? I can't hear you look I gave. She didn't raise the volume of her voice, she simply spoke distinctly. In less than two minutes, I learned that she was born in Greece and raised in California. She was widowed and had two children. She was a school teacher, and she enjoyed traveling. At that, she bade me "good day," and drove on. I watched her car until she turned the corner, and I returned to my yard. I took our short interaction as my cue to stop waving and start visiting.
The first visit was a little awkward. I rang the doorbell and waited. I wasn't sure if she was home because I hadn't seen her drive pass my house. When she opened the door, her greeting sounded like she was expecting me. "Well, come in!" she said, opening the door wide enough for me and the rest of the neighborhood. "I just stopped in to say hi" I said, stepping into her quiet home. I felt unexpectedly strange about being there. It was like I was secretly visiting someone's grandmother. "I won't be staying long," I said. Maybe I was hoping she would be glad about that. "Stay as long as you'd like," she smiled. "We're going to be good friends." Five minutes, and I'm outta here! I didn't say that, but it sums up what I was thinking. I sat down and looked around. Everything was settled and polished and ascetically placed. I had a mental flashback to the four year old me. Sit still and be quiet.
Amelia didn't move quickly, but she certainly had zest. She sat in the high back chair across from me. We reintroduced ourselves, and before I knew it, my five minutes had given way to about thirty minutes of talking, laughing and getting acquainted. On my way out, she thanked me for coming and asked that I come again. I did, but not very often. I missed Betty, but I didn't want Amelia to be Betty for me. I wanted to be her friend although I had a little trepidation about her age and my heart. I didn't want to miss her too.
Over the course of a few months, Amelia stopped driving. She began taking a cab or calling her daughter to take her to her appointments. One day she called me. She had "an emergency" hair appointment, and her daughter wasn't available to take her. Not a problem. When we arrived, I walked her into the salon. There were three or four other elderly ladies already seated. One lady asked Amelia about her daughter, who had been bringing her. Amelia did a Queen Elizabeth-like wave and announced "This is my friend, Kimber. She's the ambassador of friendship." Just as the oohs and ahhs started, an awkward smile gripped my face. I greeted the ladies, turned and made a quick exit. Driving home, I laughed. No, I thought, she's not Betty. She's Amelia, and we're going to be friends for a while.
Amelia and I didn't DO things together. As a matter of fact, the beauty salon trip was the only time we went anywhere together. I visited her, but I didn't always go into her house. I often stood on her steps for a few minutes and we'd chat. Then we wouldn't see each other for a week or two.
I suspect that Amelia enjoyed our short bursts of visits just like I did. Our chats gave her the opportunity to dream out loud. "Let's go to Greece!" she said out of the blue. She didn't ask if I wanted to go or even if I liked traveling. I could have said no, but why? I had never been to Greece, so why not dream a little with my friend? She told me about the places we'd see and how long we'd stay. She talked about the food and, "oh by the way, have you been to the Greek festival yet?" "No?! Let's go next year!" "Do you know (this official or that official)?" "No?! I'll introduce you." That was how she was. She wasn't ready to stop living, even though she depended on others to be a part of her dreams.
I knocked on Amelia's door one afternoon, but she didn't answer. I phoned her, and still no answer. I figured she was out on one of her many appointments. But when I didn't hear from her or see her for over two weeks, I worried. One day I was walking by her house and saw her in the window. Phew! She had been in the hospital with the flu.
The next time she was "missing", it was for several weeks. I kept an eye out for her. Several more weeks passed, and I feared the worst. One Sunday morning I saw an estate sale sign on Amelia's lawn. My fear was true. Amelia had died. Her children were selling everything in her house. I took the opportunity to walk over and introduce myself. Her daughter told me that Amelia had been in the hospital with the flu. She was recovering, so they transferred her to a nursing care facility. While she was there, she fell and broke her hip. She passed away several days later.
I was sad to know that I would no longer see Amelia, but I didn't mourn her passing the way I did when Betty passed. I liked Amelia, and especially enjoyed being part of her dreams. I knew from the beginning that this kind lady who drove the tank was not just looking for a friend. She needed someone who believed in her dreams just as much as she did. But it wasn't just about her dreams. God placed Amelia in my life for me. I learned some important life lessons during the season of our friendship. First Lesson: Don't just wave, stop in for a visit. Second Lesson: Be an ambassador. Third Lesson: Be a part of someone's dream.
I You, God for my friends, Betty and Amelia.
I don't know the difference between a Chrysler and a Ford, but whatever it was, I often saw it gliding down my street at about 15 miles an hour. It looked like something out of a 1960s television show. You know, the kind of car you might have seen on Leave It to Beaver. The driver's head was visible from the side window, but could barely be seen over the steering wheel. She casually waved to me just before she turned into her driveway across the street and three houses down from mine. The white house with red brick siding and large picture window was designed much like my 1940s house. I watched her park that big ol' white "tank" in her one car garage. I was sure she'd knock the side mirrors off or scrape the tale-end, but she manipulated that car with flawless precision. Moments later the garage door closed, and that was that. Some days she would go from the garage to her front yard, reposition her water hose, then disappear into the garage again. That was the extent of our contact... for about two years. Not meeting Amelia wasn't intentional. I hadn't given it a second thought. Actually, I hadn't given it a FIRST thought. I was fine watching her drive by, wave and park.
I was working in the yard one afternoon, when I spotted "the tank" approaching. I waved, but to my surprise, she slowed down, and stopped in the middle of the street. I saw her glasses first, then I saw her face. She looked to be around 80 years old. Her hair was a precisely measured combination of dark grey and white. Her small frail looking finger beckoned me. It was the way her pink lipstick moved that clued me in on the fact that she was saying something to me. I found myself standing in the middle of the street, my head lowered so that I could understand her quiet raspy voice. "My name is Amelia" she said, over enunciating the syllables, "AH-MEE-LE-AH". She must have picked up on the Huh? I can't hear you look I gave. She didn't raise the volume of her voice, she simply spoke distinctly. In less than two minutes, I learned that she was born in Greece and raised in California. She was widowed and had two children. She was a school teacher, and she enjoyed traveling. At that, she bade me "good day," and drove on. I watched her car until she turned the corner, and I returned to my yard. I took our short interaction as my cue to stop waving and start visiting.
The first visit was a little awkward. I rang the doorbell and waited. I wasn't sure if she was home because I hadn't seen her drive pass my house. When she opened the door, her greeting sounded like she was expecting me. "Well, come in!" she said, opening the door wide enough for me and the rest of the neighborhood. "I just stopped in to say hi" I said, stepping into her quiet home. I felt unexpectedly strange about being there. It was like I was secretly visiting someone's grandmother. "I won't be staying long," I said. Maybe I was hoping she would be glad about that. "Stay as long as you'd like," she smiled. "We're going to be good friends." Five minutes, and I'm outta here! I didn't say that, but it sums up what I was thinking. I sat down and looked around. Everything was settled and polished and ascetically placed. I had a mental flashback to the four year old me. Sit still and be quiet.
Amelia didn't move quickly, but she certainly had zest. She sat in the high back chair across from me. We reintroduced ourselves, and before I knew it, my five minutes had given way to about thirty minutes of talking, laughing and getting acquainted. On my way out, she thanked me for coming and asked that I come again. I did, but not very often. I missed Betty, but I didn't want Amelia to be Betty for me. I wanted to be her friend although I had a little trepidation about her age and my heart. I didn't want to miss her too.
Over the course of a few months, Amelia stopped driving. She began taking a cab or calling her daughter to take her to her appointments. One day she called me. She had "an emergency" hair appointment, and her daughter wasn't available to take her. Not a problem. When we arrived, I walked her into the salon. There were three or four other elderly ladies already seated. One lady asked Amelia about her daughter, who had been bringing her. Amelia did a Queen Elizabeth-like wave and announced "This is my friend, Kimber. She's the ambassador of friendship." Just as the oohs and ahhs started, an awkward smile gripped my face. I greeted the ladies, turned and made a quick exit. Driving home, I laughed. No, I thought, she's not Betty. She's Amelia, and we're going to be friends for a while.
Amelia and I didn't DO things together. As a matter of fact, the beauty salon trip was the only time we went anywhere together. I visited her, but I didn't always go into her house. I often stood on her steps for a few minutes and we'd chat. Then we wouldn't see each other for a week or two.
I suspect that Amelia enjoyed our short bursts of visits just like I did. Our chats gave her the opportunity to dream out loud. "Let's go to Greece!" she said out of the blue. She didn't ask if I wanted to go or even if I liked traveling. I could have said no, but why? I had never been to Greece, so why not dream a little with my friend? She told me about the places we'd see and how long we'd stay. She talked about the food and, "oh by the way, have you been to the Greek festival yet?" "No?! Let's go next year!" "Do you know (this official or that official)?" "No?! I'll introduce you." That was how she was. She wasn't ready to stop living, even though she depended on others to be a part of her dreams.
I knocked on Amelia's door one afternoon, but she didn't answer. I phoned her, and still no answer. I figured she was out on one of her many appointments. But when I didn't hear from her or see her for over two weeks, I worried. One day I was walking by her house and saw her in the window. Phew! She had been in the hospital with the flu.
The next time she was "missing", it was for several weeks. I kept an eye out for her. Several more weeks passed, and I feared the worst. One Sunday morning I saw an estate sale sign on Amelia's lawn. My fear was true. Amelia had died. Her children were selling everything in her house. I took the opportunity to walk over and introduce myself. Her daughter told me that Amelia had been in the hospital with the flu. She was recovering, so they transferred her to a nursing care facility. While she was there, she fell and broke her hip. She passed away several days later.
I was sad to know that I would no longer see Amelia, but I didn't mourn her passing the way I did when Betty passed. I liked Amelia, and especially enjoyed being part of her dreams. I knew from the beginning that this kind lady who drove the tank was not just looking for a friend. She needed someone who believed in her dreams just as much as she did. But it wasn't just about her dreams. God placed Amelia in my life for me. I learned some important life lessons during the season of our friendship. First Lesson: Don't just wave, stop in for a visit. Second Lesson: Be an ambassador. Third Lesson: Be a part of someone's dream.
I You, God for my friends, Betty and Amelia.
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