The Shack

I read The Shack this week and, although this may surprise some people, I wasn’t impressed. I feel a bit guilty for that – I’ve heard such great things about it. Friends have raved.  I expected to be moved and really wanted to like it but it left me more annoyed than inspired.

I should explain… I’m not much of a follower. I mean I don’t think I’m anti-social, I like people just fine and have friends, have even been a member of groups, but I’m just not one to watch a movie or read a book simply because it’s the popular thing. In fact, I’m contrary enough that if something is “the thing” then I’m likely to set it aside. Snobbish of me I know, but I just don’t put much faith in bandwagons. This means that I’m often not quite up on the popular culture — and sometimes means that I don’t discover some great things until much, much later because my snobbishness got in the way.  I know there are blockbuster movies that are amazingly wonderful but I think that most blockbusters are simply the newest thing out there. I don’t use Oprah’s Book Club as suggestions for my reading list, but I’ve also read some good books and found out later she had recommended them.

So, The Shack… it seemed that the only thing I heard about this book was praise (well, except for the pastor who preached that no “good Christian” should read it because, gasp, God is portrayed as a woman and that will lead us all down the slippery slope to goddess worship. I wanted to ask him what he though about the verses in Psalms where it says that He covers us with his wings and ask if considering that word picture would lead to chicken worship but I refrained). So I resisted reading The Shack in large part because it was so well loved –  I just wasn’t going to hop on the bandwagon.  Like I said earlier, when I finally decided to read it I expected to be moved. This book is about a person with a deep hurt and, as a result, has a lot of questions for God. Hmmmm, sound familiar? Based on what I’d heard, I wanted to see myself and my relationship with God and experience some kind of catharsis. This is the kind of life-changing reaction to the book that I’d heard from others. Maybe I set myself up to be disappointed.

I didn’t hate the book, or think it was a bad story, I was just left a bit flat. Every good story has some underlying message, but the question is, which came first – the story or the message? While reading The Shack, I felt that the author had a message he was trying to proclaim and created the story to show a way to relate to God. I never felt that Mack had taken residence in the author’s mind and he had to put him to paper. Instead I felt that he had been moved considering how God wants to reach out to us at a very personal level and chose to create a story to explain those thoughts. 

There were definitely parts of the story that I liked. I loved the garden – the chaotically, beautiful, fractal mess of the garden and what it represented. The discussion about judgement made me stop and think (and, ironically, I wonder how this post fits in). Forgiveness seemed a bit too easy, although I did appreciate that God said even in the midst of forgiveness there still may be some appropriate, lingering anger. Although it’s been said a zillion times and can easily be cliche, I needed to be reminded that it’s not about rules but about relationship.

I don’t regret that I’ve given a few hours of my life to read The Shack or feel that my time was wasted, I just wasn’t as moved as I expected, and wanted, to be. What was your experience? What did I miss?

Learning to live alone

For most of my life I have not ever been really alone. Sometimes it looked like I was alone, but it was an illusion. The children were sleeping and the house was quiet, but my mind was occupied with thoughts of laundry or doctor visits or next weeks’ activities. Even when my family wasn’t physically with me, they filled my conscious thoughts and plans.

In the midst of all this, I often found time to feed my creative side. Reading late at night (or even sometimes all day), cross-stitch or other handwork projects while waiting for music lessons to end, learning alongside my children in our homeschooling adventure. But the time was always carved out and I was never fully alone. Instead, during those times, my life was temporarly paused.

This is not to say that I never felt lonely. Cliche I know, but “alone” and “lonely”, although they may (or may not) occur at the same time, are not the same. It is also possible to feel bone aching lonliness surrounded by others or lying in bed next to the one you have promised ’till death do you part’.

Then came the Year of Changes. A tsunami hit and nothing was recognizable. The marriage was officially over. I was a shell of a mother, functioning on auto-pilot (and not very well at that). Our address changed and then changed again. The younger boys entered public school. The oldest spread his wings and moved away from my nest. I learned to spend my days working in a corporate office. For the most part, whether I was physically alone or not, the only thing I felt was numb and the most creative activity I could think of was sleep.

Gradually, in fits and spurts, we all started to heal. The kids have grown and more have sprouted wings. Most of the time older children do not require the same sort of intense mothering that toddlers and pre-teens do. They spend more time away from home and, although one never really stops thinking of them, worrying on occasion, wondering often what they’re up to, they no longer fill every corner of my thoughts. My plans no longer center solely on their needs and schedule.

If we’ve done your job right as a parent, children are supposed to grow up and become independent. Oh, they never stop needing us, but how they need changes.  While there was once a day when we planned their every waking moment, now they make plans without even consulting us. Although it is right and good and The Way Life Should Be, as the children grow, you find yourself spending time alone.

2008 has been the year that I have learned to live alone. Three out of my four children no longer live at home full time and the fourth often spends days at a time away. I spent New Years, the Fourth of July and my birthday alone. I had the apartment totally to myself for weeks at a time. And mostly, I’ve liked it.

There certainly are days when that bone chilling lonliness attaches itself like a leech on my soul, but those days are much fewer and farther between. Instead I’ve learned to appreciate the silence, to listen and begin to remember who I am.  This has been a year of restoration, a time to let the me that has been hidden for so long to begin to bud and bloom.

I wonder what my parents would think of the election

My mother died in 1974 and my father in 1986 but I wonder what they would think of this election. Voting was important in my family. One of my earliest memories is going to the polls with my mother when I was about 3 or 4. I remeber walking across the street and down the block to a house I hadn’t visited before. I don’t remember many details, but I do know that it was a very important occasion.

In Seventh Grade I remember my History teacher, Mrs. Monticello, asking the class who was Republican and who was Democrat. Then she said something that has stuck with me ever since. I don’t recall the exact words but I remember that she told us we were wrong. That until we were old enough to vote, we weren’t either. We may be identifying with what how our parents aligned themselves, but it wasn’t yet our choice. I think it could be argued that Seventh Grade is not too early to have a thought out opinion, but for the most part she was right. Almost 40 years later and I’m still trying to figure out what I am politically.

My older brother challeneged my parent’s Republican ideology by protesting against Vietnam and for Civil Rights. I was too young (and sheltered) to know how politically active he may have been at the time, but I do remember one story. David was a gifted musician and earned some money as a church organist. One year in the late 60’s/ early 70’s he was fired becasue on his musical choices. On Civil Rights Sunday he choose to play “We Shall Overcome” for the offertory. I guess that even California wasn’t as open as it could have been at the time.

In a few days we will elect either the first African American President or the first woman Vice President. My parents were born only a few years after women were granted the right to vote. I wonder what my parents would think of this historic election. I wonder what political discussions we may have had if my parents had lived into my adulthood. Who would they choose to vote for? What issues would they feel were most important?

How will my children remember my political views? Do they know what I really think, who I support and why?

Hello, it’s me. I’m still here

It’s been quiet here in my little corner of the blogosphere and that’s about to change. I’ve been doing a fair bit of thinking about what this blog means to me and how I want to portray myself to the world. Of course, “the world” in this case means the handful of you that are even aware that this blog exists and the even smaller handful that might read it occasionally.

One of the first rules of writing is to know your audience. Who am I writing for? Who do I think might find it interesting or relevant or even amusing? At the risk of sounding selfish or narcissistic, I write for myself. I write to clear my head, to put to paper (or computer) bits and pieces of the thoughts and emotions rolling around in my brain. I want to believe that something I’ve written may strike a chord with those who may read it and that is what I choose to publish here.

I struggle with the desire to become transparent and the opposite desire to remain anonymous. I want to ask the important questions and share my journey towards answers. I want to share my struggles, worries, joys. I want to write the kinds of things that I like to read. I want to be real.

At the same time, I want to remain hidden. It is important that I keep a certain amount of anonymity. I am careful not to use my full name or my children’s names. Any ‘real life’ friends that know about this blog will know because I shared it with them, not because they googled my name. (Besides, how arrogant is it to think that people I know are so curious about me to take the time to google.)

I know that I’ve missed writing and I have more I want to share.

The only constant is change

Did you ever have a pain so raw and so deep that you couldn’t look it squarely in the face? You had to dance around it, stealing glances, sure that if you made eye contact it would wash over you like a tidal wave and you would be consumed?

This is what my summer has been, waiting and dreading the day I had to face another change in my life. Yesterday I moved my thirteen year old, my baby, to the big city to live with his brother. It’s a good move for him, the right one, full of opportunity and hope. He’s surrounded by people that know him and like him and will grow to love and nurture him. I expect that he’ll flourish and grow to become the man he’s meant to be.

Deciding to let him go was a decision I made for him and not for me. It seems that most of the decisions in my life, big and small, have been made for my children. Where will I live? Will I stay at this job? How will I spend my money? Who will I spend my spare time with? What will I do this weekend? Some days I wonder — when do I choose based on what I really want? When do I choose the ending I most want to see?

Almost every conversation I’ve had over the past few months discussing this move has been centered on what is best for my boy – The school here is killing his spirit. He needs a place to let loose his creativity. He spends too much time alone. He needs the daily influence of men in his life. He wants to go. He’s happy and relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in years. This is the right thing for him. He’ll be ok.

Through it all I’ve wondered if I would also be ok. I’m tired of changes, tired of adjusting, tired of watching my dreams die. I’ve reminded myself that mothers throughout the ages have made the hard choices for their children, sending them off to their destiny even when they want to hold them close. I’ve told myself (although I’m not so sure I fully believe it) that I’m a better mother for making this choice. Somehow, by letting him go and live apart from me, I will help him become more whole and more the man he is supposed to be.

But the pain lurks, like a dragon, just around the corner. I have to consciously hold it away from me so I’m not consumed. I’m afraid if I look it square in the face that I’ll be overwhelmed and immobilized by the enormity of it all. I have to keep moving forward, to somehow make it through the long quiet nights when the doubts and the loneliness sneak up on me. I have to convince myself that I can survive this change as well as the others that came before it. That somehow, in the end, I’ll be ok.

Catching up

One of the themes in my life the last few years is the phrase “Feels like doesn’t mean is”.  I know my emotions are only semi-trustworthy, fueled by hormones, lack of sleep, sunshine (or the lack thereof), how much chocolate I’ve consumed lately, and so on. Feelings and emotions are a barometer and not to be ignored, but I try not to let them define the situation.

I have a major tendency to be hard on myself. Deep down in the core of my personality is a perfectionist who sees everything in black and white. Everything is categoriezed as either “good” or “bad” with nothing in between. The “good” means everything, down to the smallest detail is perfect. One speck of “bad” and it’s all rotten. I fight that inner perfectionist daily and I’ve learned to challenge her rigid way of viewing things. Few things in life, especially when looking at our actions and choices, are stark black and white. I’m slowly learning to accept that life is shades of gray with occasional burts of rainbows.

I’ve been quiet lately because I’ve only been able to see my faults and failings. Life has been more than overwhelming and I haven’t had much confidence in myself as a mother, an employee, a friend. I’ve tried to listen to that voice of reason and not let those feelings define me, but it’s been tough. I haven’t wanted to share my dark side. I’m cautious about being too transparent out here in public and it’s just been simpler to be quiet.

I’ll be back, hopefully soon.

My Plan

I have this silly little idea running through my head about a consumer-free April. I’m not sure where it came from but it doesn’t seem to be going away. I only call it silly because I know it’s going to be difficult. I would like to dismiss it as a silly little whim, but I just can’t.

 For the month of April, I am not going to buy anything, other than necessary food or other consumables, with a few planned exceptions. Nothing new, nothing used.

I wonder if I can make it. Already my heart is racing and my palms are a little sweaty. Is it really that unsettling to even think about not spending money? Out of necessity I’m pretty frugal as it is, although I am aware of a few areas where I’m not as careful as I could be.

 Here’s what’s out:

New or used anything that isn’t a necessary consumable such as food or toilet paper. If it’s something that can wait, it will wait until May. If one of the boys suddenly grows out of, or totally destroys, their shoes (again), that would be a necessity. But if the TV remote breaks (again!), that can wait.

Unplanned eating out. It is just too easy to give in to tiredness or just plain laziness and stop for fast food or call out for pizza. The convenience of the cafeteria at work is tempting, but the money adds up quickly. Truthfully, the only reason I buy food in the work cafeteria is because I didn’t want to make a lunch at home.

Yarn or other craft supplies that are not absolutly necessary to complete a project that absolutely must be completed NOW. Ninety-nine percent of the yarn and related supplies that I purchase is, at some level, an impulse buy and could easily be postponed. Yeah, I know, it’s on sale… it’s a deal… I’ve been wanting to try this yarn and how can I pass it up… but it’s money I don’t need to spend.

Books. Oy, this is going to hurt. Is there anything more pleasant than an hour spent in a bookstore, wandering the aisles, listening for the ones that call out to me? And I do listen and more often than not bring one or two (or more) home with me.

So what is allowed?

Necessary consumables such as food, etc., although I want to be more aware of how I’m spending this money. I need to do more planning for our meals and snacks and then follow those plans.

Planned meals away from home rather than the spontaneous. My monthly Team Lunch. My “date nights” with the boys to Caribou Coffee. Pizza or some other non-homecooked meal for the family once and only once.

Can I be successful limiting myself to only these items? I’d love to confidently say yes, but I honestly don’t know. I don’t waste a lot of money simply because I can’t afford to, but I know I blow it in the areas above. I’ve learned that the best way to avoid “retail therapy” and impulse shopping is to simply avoid even entering a store without an iron clad list in hand. But knowing that doesn’t keep me away from Hobby Lobby or Borders.

I’ll begin this April 1. It’s difficult to resist the urge to run out and stock up now but if I’m honest with myself, what do I really need to stock up on? I already own more books than I could possibly read through in the next month even if things like work and sleep didn’t get in the way. The same thing could be said for craft supplies. There is very little that I really need to add to my life.

Anyone care to join me?

Trust

Trusting God doesn’t come easily for me. It’s not so much that I don’t believe He’s in control or that He knows what He’s doing, but more that I’m afraid that what he chooses for my life will be painful and I’m afraid I will be left to deal with the pain alone. Trusting God means fully accepting the consequences and trusting that He will be there through it all.

Life hurts, I get that. Being a Christian, following God, doesn’t somehow save me from difficult circumstances. God isn’t obligated to protect me from physical, emotional or even spiritual pain. There would be a certain naive security if I could believe that, if I could lie down secure at night knowing that because God loves me, nothing bad can happen.

But that’s not His promise. God doesn’t promise to keep us from the fire. His promise is to keep us through the fire. We will have fire, no doubt about it. Do I trust God to keep me whole?

I know the scriptures… “will the clay say to the potter “what are you doing?” (Is 45:9)… “cast your anxiety on Him because He cares for you” (1 Pet 5:7)… and there are more, many more… but do I really believe them? Life is a freefall without a parachute. Do I really trust God to catch me?

What is it that makes it so hard for me to trust? I’m tired of being broken and long to be whole. I’m tired of walking through the fire and wondering if there will ever be an end. I’m just plain tired. Where is the rest? Is it there and I’m afraid to reach out and take it?

Is finding the peace, the rest, the place of trust up to me? Do I have to do all the hard work and drag myself broken and bloody and crying into His arms? Or will He reach out and find me, see my hurt and hold me close to His heart? Does He even notice I’m in pain and care enough to reach out and comfort me?

If it’s up to me then I’m lost. I don’t have the strength to bridge the gap between me and God. I need Him to see my pain and take me into His arms. 

Growing up

When I was young life seemed so sure. I’d grow up, get married, have babies, be a wife and mommy. That worked for awhile, or rather, it appeared to work. Below the surface, life wasn’t that great, but that’s a whole ‘nother story for ‘nother day. Now, the babies don’t require as much attention and I can even start to dream about when they’ll have babies of their own. I stopped being a wife years ago.

Someone once said that a man defines himself by the work he does. Ask a man to introduce himself and he’s likely to say “I’m Mike, and I’m a fireman”. A woman defines herself by the relationships around her. When she introduces herself she may say “I’m Sara and the mother of 3 children”. A generalization, I know. I know men that are very relationship oriented, and women that are very job focused, but overall, I think this is true.

There was a day when every relationship around me changed drastically. No longer a wife. A single, working mother instead of the stay at home variety. Friendships were broken, most beyond repair. Working full time I learned to navigate office politics for the first time. Moving meant I left my house and familiar neighbors and faced new ones. Every relationship that had helped to define who I was had been changed in some way, great or small. I looked in the mirror and didn’t know the person staring back.

Ever so slowly relationships have grown again. Again, they help to define me but they are no longer my only measure of who I am. Who do I want to be when I grow up? The calendar tells me I’m here, I’m an adult for keeps. I always thought that meant being sure of yourself, knowing where you want to go and how to get there. Most days I don’t even know what I want to eat for dinner, much less what I want my life to look like in five years.

Who will I become and why is it taking so long?

10/6/2006

Weakness

Who aspires to weakness? There is so much implied —  Failure. Wimp. Inadequate. Debilitated. Delicate. Exhausted. Fragile. Spent. Uncertain. Who wants to wear those adjectives? I would much rather be Strong, Independent. Resourceful. Triumphant. Capable.

I don’t want to be needy, but I have to admit that I can’t do it on my own. I do need others. I need community. Friendship. Trust. Hope. Love. Somewhere there must be a balance between fiercely independent and ‘what a leech!’ I want to stand on my own two feet, learn to take care of myself, do what needs to be done. And I want someone alongside me, a friend to encourage me when I’m down, share my joy on the good days, help me figure out how to fix the toilet.

“It’s not good for man to be alone” relates to a lot more than romance. I’m weak without relationship. When I’m in relationship with others it’s safe to share that weakness. I do aspire to weakness. I aspire to living in that safe place where I can honestly be who I am and be loved because of/ in spite of that fact.

10/5/2006