Round and Round (Part 1)

It may be slightly un-American, but I am not a sports fan. Don't misunderstand me,  I've played on a softball league, coached a girls volleyball team, and long long ago I was on a gymnastics team, but really, I'm not a sports fan. I've been known to watch a few tennis matches, and I'll even admit to watching the Chicago Bulls, just to get a glimpse at Michael Jordan, but if offered court side seats today, it wouldn't be difficult to graciously decline. Let me say it again,  I'm not a sports fan.  You're probably saying, "Okay, I get it! You're not a sports fan! What's the point?" The point is that God is willing to use what we don't like to teach us what we don't know. Part One is the story. Part two is the application.

My daughter had an early evening appointment, so we decided to go to her school's parking lot where she could complete her assignments and be at the appointment on time.  It wasn't a surprise that the lot wasn't empty. The students and staff are very active at this high school.  No sweat. We found a spot, parked and my daughter got to work.  At some point, I noticed the school's marquee announcing the wrestling match scheduled for that evening. Eww, Wrestling. No drawing power for me! The opposing school's name is what caught my attention. I have a friend who works with their wrestling team, and I'm acquainted with some of the students on the team as well. I called and confirmed that my friend would be there, took my daughter to her appointment, and thirty minutes later, I was standing in the gymnasium looking at the intense faces of several young men and women who bore the marks of concentration and pressure.
I talked with my friend from the team as well as with staff from the hosting school. Ultimately, I chose to sit with "our team" supporters and fans, near the middle section of the gym. I didn't want to sit that close to the mat, but it was fairly close to the exits as well.  I wasn't planning to stay for the entire match, but I told myself to be in the moment and enjoy the experience. Riiight… this is wrestling. That equates to flailing, sweaty, smelly bodies all locked up in this gymnasium, which was suddenly getting smaller as my imagination of those odoriferous bodily fluids grew. Ewww, wrestling. (That's what me being in the moment looks like.)
This was not training day for these kids. It was evident that they had conditioned well before this day. It was all about winning. They warmed up by jumping and stretching and tossing their team mates. They rolled and bent their legs in pretzel-like positions. The teams met on the mat, and the announcer called out each name. The hosting team looked like bears. They were stout. They were sturdy. They had laser eyes that pierced through their opponent's core. They outnumbered us, 3 to 1. Initially, I expected to see more wrestlers come from the locker room, but there weren't any more. This was it. I looked behind me, where some of our boys sat on the bleachers. I asked a wrestler why he wasn't on the mat. He shrugged his shoulders and said the coach benched him. My eyes darted to back to the team. They weren't bears. Not as stout, and not quite as sturdy looking. I studied the young men and women on both teams. Yes, our team was out sized and even outnumbered, but weren't phased. They stood there on that mat like giants. They were ready.
The junior varsity girls were first. They shook hands and the first round began. The host girl stood over the visiting girl in what looked like a protective position. The buzzer sounded, and before I could blink, they were in a tight lock. The host girl held her opponent in a head and shoulder lock. It looked hopeless. How could anyone breathe in such a position, let alone maneuver out of it? The second girl did a twist with her upper body which loosened the grip and rendered her free from her captor. Bending at the waists, they stood face to face, eyes searching, hands and arms circling as if trying to find an opening. I felt the stillness. I must have blinked too long because in a split second the visiting girl made contact and had pinned the host girl to the mat. The host coach screamed, "Use your body! Circle! Circle!" What was he talking about? I watched. The visiting wrestler was trying to flatten her opponent's body to the mat. "Circle!" Came the scream. The pinned girl used her legs to lift her body as she dug her feet in to the mat. One foot in front of the other, she walked, indeed circling her opponent thus freeing herself. She bounded to her feet, and both wrestlers were standing, again facing each other. This went on round after round. I took notice of the visiting coach. He wasn't screaming instructions to his wrestler. He sat in his chair as if he was watching a round of golf. Looks really can be deceiving though. I had the inside scoop, so I knew something that the people in the bleachers might not have known. The coach wasn't screaming to his wrestler because she was deaf. He knew that when the rubber met the road for this wrestler, she would have to depend on her training. It all came down to what she knew.
When the final buzzer sounded both wrestlers were clearly exhausted. Hardly able to stand, they took their places next to the referee, who held one hand from each girl. He raised the winner's hand, and the spectators cheered. The girls walked passed each other to the opposing side and shook the coaches hands. They then faced each other, and shook hands. The wrestlers returned to their respective teams, and oddly enough the response from both teams was identical. I knew that the deaf wrestler won the match, but the hosting team was just as enthusiastic with their wrestler as were the visiting teammates with their wrestler. No one held back the hugs, pats or high fives. Both teams showing their pride. Noteworthy, I thought.
When the varsity team took the mat, the atmosphere felt different. There was a distinct air of confidence accompanying these young people. The bears stood strong and resolute. The giants did the same.  Knowing they were outmanned hadn't dampened their confidence or desire for victory.  They were here to win, and they were here to show the bears just what they were made of.  I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but this event had the feel of more than just a high school wrestling match. (But what did I know? It was my first match.) Maybe it was determination. Maybe that's why I stayed. I wanted this to be a knock down, drag out fight, with the underdogs coming out on top.
The first wrestler from the visiting team was announced. Instead of approaching the referee and his opponent, he went to the front of the mat, kneeled and prayed. Just as with the previous rounds, this one began with one wrestler taking the dominant position over the other. Let the flailing bodily fluids fly! These guys were intense, even fierce.The coaches yelled instructions as did the crowd. The wrestlers were able to filter who was saying what, and without missing their opponent's moves, were able to adjust, maneuver or be still as instructed.  It was round after round of giants verses bears. The coaches yelled instructions and criticisms to the wrestlers, and at times the frustration on the wrestlers faces was obvious. Choke holds and pinnings were part of every round. There were mat burns, banged ears, and bloody noses. This was a game of equilibrium and endurance. If the wrestler could make his or her opponent lose their balance, it could lead to a quick victory. Once he has been pinned, the wrestler's struggle to regain footing and standing often looked like a hopeless cause. At times I feared the wrestler's breathing was being compromised. The pain in my hands let me know that I had been wringing them. When a wrestler was on top, securing his hold on his opponent, I wanted to yell, "Get off of him!" Instead, I covered my mouth with my clinched fists.  I wanted to rush to the mat and pull the wrestlers apart.  I repeatedly found myself gasping for air. "What am I doing here?" I thought.  "What in the world was I thinking? I am not a sports fan! I should be home studying or reading a book or making something!" I felt the urge to leave, but I couldn't. My feet were bolted to the floor, and the exits were miles away. I thought about Jacob wrestling with the angel. That's when it hit me… I know this feeling. It's grief. (TO BE CONTINUED)

Happy New Year!  Wow! I've been away from blogging since August 2013, and here it is, January 1, 2014 AND I'M BACK!
I'm thankful that my family, friends, acquaintances, readers, leaders, followers and YOU have made it safely through another year! I am also thankful that God in His wisdom has seen fit to lay others to rest. As I have so often said, Thank God for the resurrection!

I stopped blogging in August because I was overwhelmed with my attempt to effectively juggle life as  wife, mother, sister, employee, student, writer, blogger, and friend. Something had to give, so I dropped out of the blog scene. I thought I would be able to come back well before now, but life doesn't always go according to plans. Please accept my apologies for the sudden departure. The good news though is that I am now finished with school, and I'm ready to give the blog another go at it! Yay!!

Now that I'm re-taking the blog-pen, I need your help! Help? Yes, HELP. "How can I help?" you ask… Well, you can help me get back in the grove of blogging.  This can be accomplished in a few ways: First, send me your suggestions about topics you'd like me to address under the "umbrella" of daughters and moms, grief, loss, death, caring for elderly parents, etc.  I'm also open to talk about the relationship of sons and mothers, but since my niche comes from my experience as mom and a daughter, I am better suited to address the topics therein.  I do welcome the tough topics as well. I'll do my best to tackle them!  I welcome your questions, comments and even your criticisms. Also, I'm relatively new at this so if you have suggestions about how I can improve this blog, please include those thoughts as well. All your suggestions should be sent to my email, daileyzone@yahoo.com or go to my With Her & Without Her FaceBook page.
Finally, you can help me by getting the word out about this With Her & Without Her blog.  I'm looking forward to reading your emails and replies!

Happy New Year to you and your families! My hope and prayer is that you will enjoy a prosperous and faith filled 2014!

A Trip for Two

Several years ago my sister in-law, Philana, and I drove to her cousin's home for a girls weekend in beautiful Monterey, California. We'd known each other for three years, but prior to this weekend, we  hadn't spent any quality time together. This trip was designed to remedy that.

She picked me up in the morning, and our three hour jaunt took us through sections of California's  scenic Central Valley and into the breezy coast of Monterey.  We talked about our families and our jobs, and short snippets about Gilroy's Garlic Festival, and our infrequent visits to Anderson's Pea Soup. Other than that, we drove in virtual silence. The silence had nothing to do with us not wanting to converse. We wanted to talk, but it was strained. What should we talk about? I figured the only thing we had in common was our connection through Laurence. The small talk was enough to get us there, but I honestly wasn't looking forward to the long drive home.
I'm so thankful that the weekend didn't continue the way it began. During those two days, we discovered things about each other that we might not have learned for several years. We had similar tastes in foods and restaurants. We cherished "alone time" and shared a healthy appreciation of what looked and feels best on our feet... we loved shoes! With her cousin Cheryl, we laughed at memories that they shared of their childhood and young adult lives. They filled in some of the questions I had about their family history, and assured me that my husband's "imaginary cousin" (as I referred to him) was in fact a real live person.
Philana and I left Cheryl's house in the early afternoon, had lunch, then headed home. The drive back was in every way different from the first.  We shared stories about marriage and family similarities. We talked about our homes, our husbands and our hopes. This time our Gilroy comments could be more extensive because the slight shift in our comfort zones meant we could share why we were or were not planning to attend this year's Garlic Festival.  One of us even found out that although Anderson's Pea Soup has no bacon in it, a true vegetarian would do well to avoid their potato soup, being that it's really clam chowder!

There was only one thing wrong with the drive home: It went by too quickly.

That's the thing about life. It's a journey, a trip. A trip best traveled in groups of two or more. The journey can be made alone, but why? I like "Me time" but I have no desire to spend my life alone.  Too much ME time means not enough You time. Too much Me time means I don't get the privilege to discover who YOU are. Traveling alone makes the journey monotonous and long. Traveling with a friend brings us to our destination that much faster.
Here's how I see it: Life is about relationships. If we were meant to journey alone, God could have put us on our own little planets and left us there to figure it all out.  But that's NOT what He did. He gave us parents, children, grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, neighbors, co-workers and in-laws so that we can cultivate meaningful relationships.
When I invite others to join my journey, or when I step on to the path of another person's journey I don't always know where the road is leading, or when it will end. That puts me in a vulnerable place, so I'm sometimes hesitant. It's okay though, because not knowing the ins and outs makes it the ultimate adventure! Relying on another human being is a part of the ride. It's vital that I experience the journey with someone! The discoveries I make are not just about me. I'm learning that in matters of life and death, I have an opportunity enhance a fellow traveler's experience, which means my journey is also being enhanced.
Looking back on the weekend with Philana makes me smile a lot, and weep a little. I smile because I remember how our friendship began. I weep because we didn't spend another girl's weekend together before she passed away. But I am reminded of Steven Curtis Chapman's song, Not Home Yet (!).  I'm thankful that part of my journey was shared with my friend Philana. And when the time comes and this leg of the journey ends,  I'll begin a new journey with Jesus.  That journey will also include Philana. We have a lot of laughing to catch up on!

I Wish...

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!

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 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

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.

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.