Custom Built

Confession: What I’m about to say is going to sound an awful lot like self pity. But I’m going to take a moment and speak some personal truth.

Sometimes, in moments of exasperation and exhaustion, I fantasize about what it must be like to live a “normal life”. To have children with two, involved, living parents. To have a calendar filled with piano lessons, school dances and track meets instead of visits to specialists, therapists and hospitals. To have a phone ring, and it be someone other than the school nurse or autism support room teacher reporting on the latest issue. To explore colleges with your kids, and focus on available majors and activities and location rather than availability of quality food that won’t poison them.

I’ll confess, that sometimes I’m tempted to resent the life and story line that God has given me and my kids.

But there’s a verse in Ephesians which keeps rearing its head. It tugs at my brain, grabs me by my spirit, and pulls me out of this self pity pit and resentment spiral.

“For we are God’s handiwork, His masterpiece, His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

Since my earliest days of Sunday School, I’ve heard about God the Creator. That I am “fearfully and wonderfully made” and “created in His image”. So for the longest time, I would look at that verse in Ephesians through the lens that I’ve been designed with certain physical capabilities, talents and skills that God has given me to do good things in this world.

But in the face of my resentment, this verse has been making me dig further lately to consider that the way God has designed me goes beyond my genetic makeup and resume. That His creative work in me is ongoing as he carves experiences into me through the very life story line I sometimes resent. What if those moments of discomfort, pain, sorrow...the non-normal living that occupies space in my story...what if that’s where his handiwork, his mastery, his workmanship really shine?

And what if the result is a specially designed, one-of-a-kind, perfect instrument custom-built to do a specific, targeted, unique work in this world, as no one else could?

It stops me in my tracks to think that when it comes to completing the good works God has prepared for us, the most powerful and effective tools we bear could actually be those painful experiences and deepest hurts we endure. That the very best chances I have to make a difference in someone’s life, in my community, in my world are made possible by the qualifications I’ve received through these most difficult points in my story line.

When I consider the experiences and circumstances God has chosen to weave into my life, I can see I am custom-built for laser-focused empathy, comfort and encouragement for the person who has to

• Write an obituary for a parent.
• Process the news that someone she loves took his life.
• Attend a 50th anniversary party weeks after signing divorce papers, fully cognizant that she will never have such a celebration.
• Sit in an IEP meeting by herself, hoping desperately that the eyes of others in the room will open so they can truly see that her child is so much more than a diagnosis.
• Press for one more blood test for a child, because gut instinct and incessant googling won’t let her drop this suspicion that something’s wrong.
• Face a spouse who tells her he’d be happier without her.

Don’t get me wrong -- these experiences absolutely sucked to go through.

But I am going to try like crazy to trust that they make me more complete and perfect to do the work God’s prepared for me. And I'm going to trust that my kids, because of their specially crafted story lines, are going to be super-powerful, custom-built instruments to complete the works God has for them as well.

It is my prayer that the experiences of our deepest hurts are not wasted. That they are redeemed and made useful in bringing real, authentic, laser-focused comfort to others.

Because that’s a good work that is worth it.

Standing

Today I was reminded of something.

A couple of years ago, my counselor told me that the word she would use to describe me was ‘survivor’. I immediately hated that. Survivor feels like a passive participant who stumbled upon victory – someone who by luck and chance and wits managed to walk away from the plane crash or cancer. Someone whom life had acted upon; a victim of circumstance, but yet managed to eek her way through.

Without a whole lot of thought, I responded that I’d rather be described as a Warrior. Someone who has been actively pursuing victory. Perhaps the odds weren’t in her favor, but she fought courageously anyway. Fighting against the enemy. Strong, and certainly not a victim.

At that point, as she was a big proponent of yoga, she introduced me to the Warrior Pose. As soon as I saw it, something clicked in my brain, and I knew it was the visual representation of what I wanted my life to be.

I have to begin by saying I know nothing about yoga.

My time spent attempting the Virabhadrasana 1 (Vira=hero, bhadra=friend, asana=pose) position was directed by a variety of YouTube videos and miscellaneous websites and nods of friends. I have no idea if what I was doing was technically correct. But I feel OK about that, because the way I’ve been doing Life is probably not technically correct either.

The first time I did this pose, I was dressing for work in my bedroom. I attempted to recreate what I saw in the photo galleries on my screen, my right knee bent over my right ankle, my left leg extended back with left foot slightly tilted. As I awkwardly extended my arms upward, I became acutely aware of only one feeling. Pain. I hurt, deep within every muscle between my knees and waist.  I had no idea how painful standing still could be.

What I desperately wanted to do in that moment was move. Shift my weight. Pick a different position. But to do this correctly, I couldn’t choose a different position – after all in life, often (maybe not always, but often) circumstances are chosen for you. In this position I was called to stand still.

I observed two things during this attempt and those that followed.

First. The grip between my feet and the surface on which I stood deeply affected my strength and ability to maintain that position. That connection could make or break me. No matter my inner strength, my physical strength, if I stood on a slippery surface in socks, I had no chance of holding my position.

And Second. I could affect the magnitude of the pain for brief moments in time by shifting my focus to my hands. As I considered where my hands were reaching, and concentrated my mind on that location, I noticed that pain occupied less of my attention. That time was short though, because as soon as I made the observation, I thought about pain, and my thoughts went back to my aching muscles, that hurt just as much as before. But because of those brief moments, I had new hope that I could stand longer and stronger than I had previously thought possible. 

As I’ve been reflecting on these things, the pain of standing, the significance of the connection with the surface upon which one stands, and the focus of one’s attention, I’ve thought much about God’s word in Ephesians, “Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power…then after the battle, you will still be standing firm. Stand your ground.”

Grief was the ache I felt deep within during those days years ago. I woke up, and it hit my chest like a brick before I even got out of bed. It was my first emotion of the day. This was not a circumstance I chose for myself. This was thrust upon me. And just like when I attempted the Warrior pose and itched to move to relieve the pain, I had that same desire in life. But that’s not how life works, and I had observed that as my former husband had tried to outrun his pain. He had immersed himself in video games, alcohol, pornography. He ran away, moved out, obsessed about others. And eventually, took his life.

Standing firm, though it sounds deceptively simple, is hard. And it can be painful.

The ability to stand your ground depends greatly on where you are deriving your strength – what you are rooted in – and where you place your hope -- what you focus on. Standing our ground, claiming this space for light and love and reconciliation despite all that seeks to darken and despise and condemn, is what God asks of us. Just as Gandalf reminded the soldiers of Gondor, that “no matter what comes through that Gate, you will stand your ground.” That is His call for us, for you, for me.

And here I sit, remembering that lesson. Though years have passed, and circumstances have changed, standing still in my mess continues to bring new challenges. So I'm grateful for the reminder.

Warrior. hero friend. Whatever the battle brings you today. Don’t run. Don’t charge. Dig your roots in deep. Focus on what matters. And stand your ground.

My Word for 2016

At the end of every December, I identify a word that will be MY word for the upcoming year.

Last December, after Christmas, after the funeral, I found my word, or perhaps it found me.

Free.

I found it as I read the story of the crippled woman in the gospel of Luke,

Jesus was teaching in one of the meeting places on the Sabbath. There was a woman present, so twisted and bent over with arthritis that she couldn’t even look up. She had been afflicted with this for eighteen years. When Jesus saw her, he called her over. “Woman, you’re free!” He laid hands on her and suddenly she was standing straight and tall, giving glory to God. Luke 13:10-13

My heart found a home in that woman's story. Eighteen years, crippled, unable to stand, unable to look up.

Nathan Sawaya's Grasp

Just recently I was cleaning out some bookshelves, and I found an old prayer journal from 10 years ago. I picked it up and started skimming through the pages. I was struck by the desperation, the pain, the loneliness. And then I found it. The day when Ross confessed that he had been fantasizing about what it would be like to be hanging from a tree. I remember I had found the print out of instructions about how to make a hangman's noose in his dresser drawer. 

I don't remember what I did or said after hearing those words. In hindsight, I probably didn't say or do enough. But I have to give my 10-year younger self a break. She was a mom of three, all under the age of 5, the youngest just weeks old. She hadn't slept for a very long time. She also was terrified of her husband's anger - she knew that any disclosure to others would be seen as a breach of confidence - an act of high treason - and she'd be the recipient of a lot of hateful words and anger if she crossed that line.

Free.

I have spent a large chunk of my life afraid. Of sparking anger. Making things worse. Of a future that just looked the same as today. Of a moment when all things would go horribly wrong. That, despite all of my prayers, there would never be healing.

Ross spent a very long time in a very dark place, and he lost all perspective sometime between the night of December 19 and the morning of December 21, 2015. I'm still so angry that his story ended as it did. It's just not right. It's so unjust. This was supposed to be a story of triumph, overcoming, prayers answered.

Nathan Sawaya's My Boy

Ultimately, it is, I suppose. As Ross sits in heaven, with his healthy mind, no longer Satan's playground, no longer clouded by lies. He's hanging out with my Savior, and his Grandma June and my dad, all of whom I'm sure gave him a good smack when they saw him. But as I look around, at the faces of his children, his parents, his friends, me...I see the carnage that's been left behind. 

Free.

As I think back on these last 12 months, I relate to the crippled woman, who was suddenly able to stand straight and tall. I hadn't realized how much space in my mind had been occupied with worry and fear over Ross. I'm free of that now. I'm not worried about what I'll find in my text messages from him. I'm not scared about the phone calls I would receive. I'm not fretting over whether he would show up when he said he would. I'm not required to choose my words with painful precision. His mood and his pain no longer govern my day, my decision making, my future. 

My story of triumph, of overcoming, of prayers answered....it's still being written. I am free, to stand straight and tall, and give glory to God. In this last year, Christ has put his hands on my face, gently lifted my eyes, and cried with me, saying, "Woman, you are free." 

And so free shall I be.

Nathan Sawaya's Gray

Keeping it Together

I've been processing a lot lately. The deep work that a good therapist forces you to do. I was going to write about it. But then, as I opened up this blog, and starting reading the drafts that I never published, I found this one from nearly 3 years ago. I don't remember writing it.  

So much has happened since then. My little world looks so different. The big world I read about in the news has changed so much. But the truth remains the same.

If you feel like it's in your job description to keep it together, I am sharing this for you. 


(Written September 3, 2013) September 2, 2012. One year ago. It was a Sunday - I was making my list of all the things I was going to accomplish the following day, Labor Day. Since I've returned to full-time work, three day weekends smell sweeter and feel full of possibility and promise. The children had 3 days in their new school under their belts. I had completed 8 months of working with my team at work and was enjoying my teammates and responsibilities. My husband was going to weekly counseling appointments, and though I did have to hear on a regular basis how much he didn't want to be with us, I at least no longer was having panic attacks and was feeling, physically, a bit healthier.

It's strange to look back at your year-ago yourself, before the bombs had gone off and your world fell apart, and think about the difference a day can make. How unaware I was of all that was preparing itself for me. Similar to watching a horror movie, as you watch the heroine turn the knob on the bedroom door, unaware of the danger that lurks inside - but you know what's about to happen and you yell at the screen, "Run away! Turn around! Don't go in that room!" - that's how I feel as I consider that day.

Perhaps we all have a day like that. A turning point. A twist in the story. A key battle.

The next day, as I carried out my list of tasks, between the Verizon store and Staples, I got the news that my dad was in the ER. Within an hour - maybe it was more, it feels like an instant now - he was gone.

As I drove the 8 hours with my children and husband to Delaware, with feelings raw and senses heightened, I started to see how dark my days had become. I felt suffocated with fear that my children would make a noise and receive the words of wrath from their dad. I couldn't listen to the radio, or enjoy the noise of children being children, because I was scared of how he would respond. As I helped my mom at the funeral home make preparations, I received phone calls - how dare I abandon him with the kids for this long - I could feel my insides twist and churn with hurt. As we pulled into our driveway, and he ran for his vehicle and took off for destinations unknown, never to return until the next morning, I was left with 3 children's faces looking to me for answers.

Within two months he moved out. Perhaps we see him once a week. Often less. When the youngest is hurt or doesn't get her way, she cries for daddy. The middle child has periodic meltdowns, when she no longer can be brave. The oldest didn't say a word, just prayed for him. And I was alone, doing the work of two, trying to hold it together.

Then my team at work dissolved, as several moved on to different positions, different states, different employers. And I was almost alone in my job with only one other member of my team remaining, doing the work of several, trying to hold it together.

Then my son started having problems at school, hitting himself, biting himself, severe anxiety, hiding under desks and in bathrooms, ripping up papers, staring at schoolwork unable to start a sentence. A battery of tests came back with an Asperger's diagnosis. Weekly phone calls from teachers and principals reporting on the latest, asking me what they can do. Doctor's appointments, tests, counseling services, long evenings of homework, re-creating torn up assignments, researching, dietary changes, planning, negative self-talk, discussions of suicide and worthlessness and brokenness, navigating medicaid and insurance and support services and IEPs. And I was alone, doing the work of a full medical team, trying to hold it together.

And then I was promoted after a long process of interviews and nausea-inducing waiting, and hired a new team and started fresh. Difficult goals, stretching, learning new things, identifying strategies, making it up as I go along, trying to hold it together.

Friendships have taken a back burner as  I lack the energy to talk or make plans, schedule lunches, even post on Facebook. Isolated, alone, self-absorbed. Trying to hold it together.

This year has nearly broken me.

Everything I know has been stripped to the bones. Exposed.

I wish I could say that's all behind me. But I'm still in the same place - still wandering through marital separation and lacking clarity about our future, still looking at the bite marks on my son's arms after a school day, still forming my plans and teams and identifying best practices in my job, still not able to keep up with friends and family as I'd like.

But this isn't a triumph of the human spirit story. This isn't about me.

Colossians 1:17,

Christ was before all things. All things are held together by Him.

God throughout this year, has shown me on a regular basis that he is holding me together. Whether it be the treats and meals a neighbor would bring me, or a text from a friend, or the financial provision to pay the bills, or the comfort of praying in community with others.

I don't know what I'm doing. I screw up daily.

But I'm not responsible for holding it all together. I'm going to try to remember that. Because only God knows what a year will bring.

Birthday week

This week has felt very sad.

I've been surprised by that.

I keep thinking, it'll get better. Others have said that to me. When my kids sprain their wrist or ankle, I can tell them with authority that it will hurt the worst in the beginning, but in a couple of weeks, they'll barely notice the discomfort.

But then there are other injuries, when it seems to hurt the most in the middle. Times when the process of healing creates a deep, painful itch in the wound.

Right now, almost 6 weeks since his death, I feel like I'm in the middle of a deep, painful itch in my spirit.

We celebrated his birthday on Monday. He would have been 41. He despised birthdays. He felt that they were some sort of relational facade - a fabricated reason to celebrate someone that you wouldn't normally treat special any other day of the week. Really, I think it was deeply tied to the fact that, in his mind, he wasn't worth the party or the attention.

So I tried to honor him on this birthday. We played video games at an arcade. I pushed a couple of kids to be brave and climb on ropes courses as he has done in the past. We ate pasta. I think we successfully had a little fun.

But it was also just a twisted reminder of how lost he was. Year after year, he really felt we were lying or delusional when we tried to express love to him on the day of his birth. He felt he knew the "truth", that there was nothing in him, to his core, worth an ounce of celebration. That always made me sad, year after year. Because I had tried desperately to point out to him everything I knew that was amazing and honorable and lovable about him. And in the end, he just couldn't or wouldn't believe it.

Twenty years ago, I visited Ross on Dickinson's campus to help him celebrate his 21st birthday. I hadn't realized that he was plotting to propose to me, and I unwittingly foiled attempt after romantic attempt that weekend. He finally managed to get me alone in the Stuart House laundry room and said something like, "I've warned you before, how I can be. Are you sure you want to be with me?" You know, the typical intro that makes you feel like your relationship's about to end. Of course I responded with affirmation. And then he proposed.

That was a long time ago. We were so young.

I know that life never turns out the way you plan or expect. That seems like a pretty obvious statement. But it's been haunting me this week.

Happy birthday Ross. 

You are amazing. 

You are honorable. 

You are lovable. 

You are worth it all.

God cries

Last night I held my eldest daughter as her external shell finally cracked and she cried and screamed and mourned the loss of her daddy. Her list of wishes broke me.

I wish I had been there that last night to stop him.

I wish I knew what his last thoughts were about.

I wish he was here for Christmas.

I wish he opened his Christmas presents, because I think he would have liked them.

I wish he had never moved out.

I wish he was here and I could tell him every night that I loved him.

I wish we could go on vacation together again. And museums. And play monopoly. And go bowling.

I wish we could lie down together like we did, and I could put my head on his shoulder, and we could talk like we used to.

I wish he would be there when I got married.

I wish he could be a grandfather. 

And on and on. An hour of wishes and sobs. And I just couldn't hug it away. I couldn't distract her with a joke or a silly face. I had to sit with my little girl as she took that journey, exploring the depths of her loss. I just wanted desperately to own that hurt for her so she didn't have to do that.

It's times like this that I'm convinced that God cries. 

Because if I, her imperfect mommy, who's only known her for a brief time and can only see what's on the outside, is crying with her, than surely her God, who has known her since the beginning of time and can see her whole future and know her deepest thoughts, is weeping beside her too. 

I've told many the story of the time when I heard God speak to me. It was early in our marriage, and the reality of Ross's mental state was becoming more and more terrifying. I had gotten into my car to drive the 45 minute commute to work, and I was crying. I was screaming in my car. Can you see me, God? Can you hear me? Do you know me at all?

And I swear to you, I heard this.

Sara, I see you. I know your hurt. I hurt that you hurt. But you've got to trust me.

This has carried me through many more heart hurting years. And as God is my witness, I have trusted Him. And I believe that His heart was hurting right there beside me. And I have found Him worthy of my trust.

And now I've got to trust Him once again. That He will share in the hurt with each of my babies and personally prove Himself Trustworthy to each one. 

Let...

I feel like I am constantly pushing something.

Like Sisyphus of ancient Greek mythology, I feel as though I am destined to forever strain against an immense boulder as I push it uphill, only to watch it roll down once again.

Pushing my son, my daughters, doctors, teachers, therapists, customer service representatives, cable companies, plumbers.

I just don't trust that if I stopped pushing, there would be any movement at all.

I thought about this as I observed my bean plants pushing up through the earth.

Buried deep, with four times their height in soil packed above them, insanity must possess these seedlings as they push and prod their way to the surface.

This exercise of the will is not for the faint of heart. Not every seedling emerges, after all.

But most do.

And they push and they prod and they stretch.

Toward Victory.

They seek the sun. They push toward their life source. They prod to survive. They stretch to expose themselves. To receive.

I push because I do not trust.

They push because they do. 

My prayer friends and I pick words each new year that God has set on our hearts to meditate upon throughout the coming months. My word of 2014 was LET. As in...

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace....

and 

Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly....

Let is an action word. It's a word of acceptance. It's giving permission. It's receiving.

When I'm pushing, am I letting?

Let does not imply a lack of movement. Instead, it suggests reliance on someone else to push the boulder.

Let us draw near to God with a sincere heart..

Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess...

Let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love...

Let us not give up meeting together....

Let us encourage one another.

May my pushing turn to letting as we press on toward Christ together.