Imperfect Love: Strings and Baggage

Fadzly Mubin flickr

Relationships can be very hard work. They can go amiss with a misspoken word. My assumptions about the other person may lead me to "hear" an attitude or motive that isn't really there.  My "love" comes with invisible strings attached.  I'm weighted down with an airline-sized cart of phantom baggage.  

Twice recently I've been painfully reminded of how  my flawed love can damage the connections between me and others.

When the grandchildren came to visit this summer my smile dimmed in inverse proportion to their clamor and commotion. I realized that I expected  the kids would do as I asked the first time I asked. They would eat what I cooked. They would go to bed earlier than I did. 

 I didn't respond calmly.  I over-reacted about wasted food. My fuzzy, warm feelings evaporated faster than the soap suds creeping over the edge of the tub.  I risked spoiling our time together. My "love" had a lot of strings attached. 



The second instance was a call from a family member. We have a distant and fractured relationship. The conversation was upsetting, and afterwards I chafed. In my mind I justified the actions which had so annoyed her.  I took offense at her "tone" as well as her words. 

My first reaction was to cut off further contact with her. I decided the baggage from our childhood was too serious to ignore, too heavy to cast off, too broken to repair. 


But I read a book that gave me a sliver of hope. Unglued: Making Wise Choices in the Midst of Raw Emotions (by Lysa TerKeurst) perfectly described how some of us fly off the handle and feel ashamed later.  How unchangeable the pattern seems. (Have you ever had the feeling someone was writing about YOU?)

Then she formulated concrete steps to handle my unpleasant feelings. She gave me a how-to NOT become unglued, but how to get a grip. (She sought God's help, and I am too, since I'm not doing very well by myself.) 

The book helped me plan a response that will be truthful and gracious.  I have a face to face meeting with the relative next month. I have hope that this time I will make a wiser choice when I feel attacked.


My love is still imperfect. But I think I've untied some of the strings, and unloaded some of the rocks out of my emotional suitcase. 

etsy

 How do you handle disagreeable relationships?

Biker Book Club

I participate regularly in two book clubs. In one we spend half of the meeting talking about the book before we break for food and laughter. 

In the other, we talk about the book, but the percentages are more like  10% discussion and 90% dinner. Throw in a glass of wine, too.









I chanced across a book recently that I won't read and would never recommend to either group.  The genre is "biker fiction" and the characters are intent on drinking, riding motorcyles, and swearing. 

So why am I mentioning it? Because the author is clearly imaginative. While neither his novel's style or his theme appeal to me, what caught my eye was the front page of "randomly selected, impartial reviews." 

I read them because they were so funny.  And then read them again before I caught on that he'd written them himself. Here are some samples:

"Being a book critic is a pretty easy job. I mean, you don't need a hard-hat or gloves or anything. But face it, you have to read a LOT of books; and most of them are BORING!”  (My middle schoolers would have agreed.) "This new Shovelhead Red story makes work so much fun; I feel guilty about cashing my paycheck!"   

You won't find that admission in the Wall Street Journal.

The next one is allegedly written by "Left Lane Lenny,” a road-dog (that’s motorcycle jargon for an enthusiast) and columnist. His fictitious magazine is MyTurn, a "magazine for fat white guys who own motorcycles." 

 Lenny actually sounds a bit like Dickens. "A peek back in time. A peek into the future."  He adds description that reminds me of Gulliver's Travels  "A rollicking tale of travel and adventure." 

He goes so far as to declare the book, "One of life's great mysteries revealed.” It reminds me of author Carlos Castenada,  promising enlightenment through shamanism and mind-altering drugs. 

 The style and tone changes when a reader describes the book. "Wonderfully scripted word-portraits, and unreal character development virtually put me there! What a delightfully wrought tale of unfettered, unimpeded freedom." 

Ironically, the imaginary fan is Inmate #123456, published in Later: a magazine for condemned guys.

The last commentator is Mangler, president of the Bikers Who Actually Read Books Club. He declares that his members had better agree or be thrown out because they are "too ignorant of quality biker fiction ta be clutterin' up the club an' drink' OUR beer!"

I studied literature in college and wrote many paper on notable works. I realize now my analyses were were immature and unoriginal. Professors, I apologize.

Roy Yelverton, the author of the novel and the endorsements, has done a far better job than I.  He created a diverse group of personalities in just a few words. (Authors call that characterization and I wish I could do it!) There is a variety of tone and style. 

These phony commentaries are witty and clever.

 I bet if the anonymous book critic, Lenny, the inmate, Mangler and I had a book club, we’d agree on that.  

How would you describe your book club? What kind of books do you read?

For Better or for Worse: The Spousal Treasure Hoard

Being married, for better or for worse, includes your spouse's hoarding.

my husband's end table

My husband is a bibliophile. He has many, many books. Early in our marriage he thought I didn't notice the new ones. But I eventually spotted them (and calculated how much they cost. )

my craft closet

Likewise, he watched my  stash of fabric and yarn grow from modest, to significant, to indulgent.  He also noted the completion rate of projects from said collection. Some projects I finished quickly, some hung around for years!   He pretended to number them  and would say, "Is that unfinished project 492?"

projects 600 and 601

 My daughter's issue was shoes. Can anyone relate?  My son-in-law recently remodeled her bedroom closet. Of course, all of the shoes, boots, and sandals had to be moved. He categorized and counted them. She was shocked to see them in a large pile and sorted through them. She made some Goodwill shopper very happy with her contribution. 

One friend has a bigger job ahead of her. Her husband noticed that their large freezer was completely full. They haven't had to feed ravenous teenagers for years and his curiosity kicked in. His inventory showed they had more steaks, roasts and pounds of hamburger than they could eat in a year. While she defended the purchases because they were such good deals, she agreed to quit buying and start cooking.

photo by Xandert

As Americans we have the luxury of buying more than we need. (And I am not talking about TV-worthy hoarding, just too much of a good thing.) It's not a  healthy mindset however. Some of my beautiful woolens were eventually ruined by moths. Unused meat can even go bad in a freezer. And shoes are better worn than forgotten.

I'm grateful for my husband's teasing. It helped me reduce the resources I'd accumulated to use "someday."  Likewise, he gave away books. 

Do you struggle with how much is enough? What have you learned in the process? 

Crazed Motherhood

There are many times in a child’s life when parenting can be frenzied, and the torment seems never-ending.

Truly, a screaming infant is a severe test of patience and endurance. But it usually doesn’t last more than a few months. 

Likewise, changing diapers can push a frazzled mom’s buttons. Particularly if there are two in diapers! I once told my nearly three year old grandson that I thought we were done with messy diapers! He looked hurt. “Grandma, I’m only a little kid.” 

a crazed mom

But the longest-lived, most trying child behavior is when siblings fight. I don’t have an explanation for it.  Normally delightful kids can get cranked up for accusations, unkind remarks, intentionally hurting their brother’s feelings, and disagreeing about ridiculous things.

I knew I had reached the point of crazed motherhood on a particular afternoon when my girls were 5 and 8. 

I picked them up from school and we were ten minutes into the drive when the bickering started. It was low-level at first, and I could ignore them. I didn’t even know what the issue was. 

They escalated to louder voices, the younger one claiming “it” was unfair! She whined. I focused. What was unfair?

The older one tried to out-shout her little sister. She refused to share. I looked at them from the rearview mirror. The seat was empty, except for their two bodies. What was there to share?

Sarah indignantly announced “I don’t have to share my cookies with you!”

 My ears rang, their wrangling was out of control. But I was no more reasonable than they. I had reached the state of crazed motherhood.

“Oh for crying out loud, give your sister a cookie!” I shouted over them. 

They were silent. Maybe they understood the absurdity at the same moment I recognized it.

The last few blocks were devoid of conflict. But I had a doozy of an internal dispute to settle about my own behavior. Did they learn such nonsense, and meanness from me? Did they see their dad and I carry on in a similar way? What would a mature, loving response had looked like? 

It was a pattern of behavior with them that didn’t stop there. By late elementary school I was so tired of it I scoured the library for self-help parenting resources. One suggested that if unreasonable squabbles while driving could not be stopped with a warning, the car should be pulled over at a safe place near the home, and the children ejected to finish the trip home on foot.

Like a hunter on a big game trail I waited for an opportunity. The weather wasn’t too cold. We were within a few blocks of the house. They knew their way home. I warned them of the consequence of continued conflict. They didn’t stop. We put them out at the side of the road, and told them we’d see them at home. We knew they were home safely when the front door slammed and they stomped upstairs.

It never took more than a warning after that to stop car-contained caterwauling. 

Since then parenting experts have defined the problem more clearly and proposed effective solutions to replace my desperate measure. 

Read here, 6 Ways to Stop Sibling Fighting, which explains common reasons for the fracas.

And a blog Family Matters by Britain's super nanny has practical suggestions. 

You don't have to be a crazy mom - there's help at hand.

If you have other ideas that have reduced the friction between your kids, please share them. Or, if you're willing to share your own crazed moment, I wouldn't feel like such a fool!  

Thanks to the following blog for the "hair raising" photo.

http://crazytownndfischerprairie.blogspot.com

Santa’s Not Welcome

Santa’s no longer welcome at my house. I thought I’d be enchanted with him forever.  But before I hit thirty I knew he’d been stringing me along. And I realized he couldn’t offer anything I truly wanted. I’d been completely deceived by the glitz and candle light, which, while pretty, still left me in the dark.

Santa couldn’t deliver the Hallmark-card family I yearned for. No slippers or even diamond earrings were going to make up for my disillusionment.   No amount of shopping, gift giving or cookie baking could balance out the guilt I felt about how I fussed at my small children or criticized my husband.  I needed a new me, and Santa couldn’t produce it.

Then Jesus came calling. When I understood that He wanted to trade me divine forgiveness for my shame, I placed my faith in the cradle-to-cross Savior.

  I learned that Christmas is all about the second chance, the clean slate, the renewed spirit that Jesus offers. He was the miracle and Santa a sham.  I plugged the chimney, metaphorically speaking, and put up the manger on the mantle.

So you won’t find Santa here. We celebrate Jesus born and Jesus resurrected. 

Forget the little hooves on the roof top. I’d rather have the angelic hosts singing to high heaven and its King. I love the Light of the World more than the colored strings on my Christmas tree. The trappings of the season (interesting word, “trappings”) can’t compare with the truth behind the celebration.

I pray that your festivities would be focused on God-Come-Down. Merry Christmas.

Emotional Jet Lag: What Happens After Good-bye

I "lost" two hours in air travel this weekend.  I'll be additionally fatigued for the next few days. All of us who fly through time zones feel it to various degrees. 

The bigger adjustment for me will be the emotional lag, the living in one frame of feeling, while reliving the one I left. I think it's like jet lag. Plane trips disrupt my body rhythms.  The longing for my loved ones interrupts my thoughts, and takes longer to subside.

 It doesn't matter if you're the traveler or the one staying behind, the separation tears at your hearts. You have to adjust to the loss of immediate stimulation and response. Knowing you can't "play doctor" one more time, or hear the giggle of the one you cherish feels like an amputation.

We grandparents know the relationship can survive.  But we will miss the sweet sensation of  the child's hug, the little hand in ours. We crave the face to face chatter which Skype can't replicate. 

Despite technology distance makes communication lopsided. I can initiate calls or write to the kids, but they need their parents' help. And mom and dad are up to their eyeballs in the demands of the moment.

Virtual fun can't compete with roller skating or painting a bird house. And there's just no way to gather the kids from two families together via email or snail mail.

        How do I adjust to "love lag?"  

1. Be thankful. Savor the fun and joy we shared.
2. Chronicle the trip. I like to cement the memories with books of photos and narrative using Shutterfly .  I send  favorite photos of us together as postcards using the sticky-backs from PhotoStix
3. As a believer in God's "social media", I pray. Better than I, He can guide their school situations, shape their characters and meet family needs. 
4. Get busy. responsibilities eventually fill in some of the hole left by the separation.
5. Share the highlights. I brag about our adventures to my fellow grandparents. They empathize. 
6. Plan for the next visit! 

I bet you have other ways to cope, and I'd love for you to share them. If you don't see the comments box, hit "No comments" and see if the box opens. 

Time Bridge

  

     I married into a family whose legacy is 30 acres of forest perched beside a small tidal cove on Puget Sound. 

My grandchildren are the sixth generation to spend some part of their summers here. 

     Throughout our stay we bridge the past and the present for the children.

    

We sleep in a hundred year old barn built by a homesteading Swede. Some time ago my mother in law had the barn's massive square log walls restored and the interior retrofitted as a rustic living space.  Our beds sit where there was once hay.  A fire in the small wood stove chases the chill away, and its crackling is a gentle wake-up call.

    Hiking through the woods on the unpaved path we refer to as Norrie's road  we tell a story about the great-great grandpa for whom  it is named. On the way to the beach we point out the site of  Aunt Jane's wedding thirty years ago  and describe to the kids what their six year old mom wore.  My husband teaches the kids to catch crabs, poke gooey ducks (a type of clam), and build forts to be defended against the incoming tide the way he did.

   The grands are seven and under so their conception of the past is fuzzy. Currently their memory bridge is like a primitive jungle vine V stretched over a ravine. They need more afternoons pouring over photo albums learning the who's who of the family tree. They need more raucous dinners shared with second and third cousins, great aunt and uncle and lots of story telling.  

    We're building a bridge from Now to Then, and someday--to the future. 

The Little Read Hen

Do you remember the little red hen? She asked for help in sowing grain,

harvesting the wheat,

grinding the wheat,

and making bread.

Her lazy companions couldn't be bothered to help, and dismissed every request with a "Not I!"

"Very well, I will" she said. And she did.

But when the bread was baked and fragrant, she taunted them and asked who would eat the bread. "I will!" each volunteered.

"Oh, no you won't" she said. And she ate it herself.

My husband hates the little red hen in me. I share her enthusiasm for the rewards of hard work, and the need for personal responsibility. Ask my grown daughters. They'll tell you that I forced them to do their own laundry when they were too small to reach the controls on the machine. It's a blatant exaggeration, I waited until they were at least 9.

The hen's philosophy is a lopsided parenting strategy, but I didn't raise lazy princesses. My girls are independent and, somehow, generous. That must have come from their father. And their Father.

The little red hen and I share a stingy streak.  Happy relationships need a balance of responsibility and mercy. God has given us the responsibility to live up to His perfect standard. And because we can't, He gives us mercy through Jesus.

May I offer you a slice of bread?

http://www.food.com/recipe/5-minute-artisan-bread-325571

Beach song

Six women friends and I chatter while we unload the cars for our annual beach week. Each interaction between us spins another silken thread into the web of our relationship.

This week creates thousands of new connections and each one will change me minutely. We delve a level deeper into each others' histories and find similarities, or not. Either way, more intimate knowledge of another's life helps me encourage her more aptly. 

We feast, and ever afterwards the smell of mango and crunch of jicama will remind me of the friend who prepared the delicious slaw. 

The bike racehome to beat a storm proves to us that we're stronger and faster than we thought. We laugh and dash up the house stairs as the rain pelts down.

I practice patience with my friend's precise way of doing things, and she surely has to do the same with my lackadaisical attitude. 

The web we create is also a safety net. One of our group is at home waiting for a pathology report. We join hands to pray. 

Our togetherness creates 720 possible conversation combinations. It's like an old telephone switchboard with an operator plugging and unplugging us into the partly line. As an introvert I am sometimes overwhelmed and have to unplug my line and find a quiet place alone. 

Then I return refreshed and ready to sing again from the synapse.