So, here’s where the rubber meets the road. Yesterday, I wrote about seeing the best in people. And I love doing that in my role as teacher, friend, colleague, volunteer. But probably the hardest place for me to practice seeing the best in people is when it comes to family.
Because let’s face it, family life is tough. We get on each other’s last nerve. And then some. (A few readers REALLY know what I’m talking about. You know who you are…)
I think my personal challenge in life is this: to see the best in all people, but especially those whom I hold the closest. And it is certainly a challenge, by times. Believe me. (And, yes. I know it works the other way too…sure, I’m no walk in the park. #gladbriansnotonfacebook.)
Here’s the thing. I often post funny stories on Facebook about our family life. They are humorous glimpses into Gard family life. I choose these stories carefully. I don’t show you everything. I save the best for my Mom.
Truly. There are times when I feel there is nothing funny about our family. When I’d rather cry than laugh. There are times when the kids do nothing but fight, from dawn until dusk. There are times when Brian and I are distant. There are times when I feel such a disconnect, and that’s just inside the four walls of our home.
And it is at those times that I feel the greatest challenge to love. To see the best. To find something funny to share. Because truth be told, the days where I am at my funniest self are usually the days when I’ve been at my lowest self here behind the computer screen.
So now you know the rest of the story.
So when I feel the challenge to see the best in people, it is really a call to my deepest self. A call to see that inside ever y heart there is feeling. Inside every soul there is stirring. Inside every little hand there is warmth. Inside every big one, too. Inside everybody is a little goodness. And the challenge is to find that goodness. And make it the focal point!
The other night, the kid’s had an epic “Mother-of-all” fights while Brian was in getting groceries at Foodland. If you witnessed this while walking by in the parking lot, I do apologize. If you were within a one mile vicinity and heard it, I offer the sincerest of requests for forgiveness. Our bad. And then some.
When the kids got home, Brian called a family meeting. We don’t have these very often. I was sadly out at the time. I took issue with him for having a family meeting without Mom in attendance, but that’s a whole other story. The point of the family meeting was for each person to express their thoughts and feelings and tell what they wished things could be like, if everyone wasn’t ‘at each other’s throats’ all the time.
And the bottom line message from each person’s comments was this: stop seeing the worst in one another. See the best.
If families could be the trendsetters in this one area, in seeing the best in people, can you imagine what our world would look like? What a message that would send…to the media, to public institutions, to policy setters, to the movers and shakers? I think the reaction would be out of this world.
I write this tonight because I am one of the worst for this, when it comes to family: it’s usually glass-half empty. And until I write my funny status up-dates, I am usually full of piss and vinegar. I preach to myself, people. And, when and if we Gards ever truly do see one anothers best for even, oh! say 75 % of the time, I’ll be sure to let you all know what that looks like. Here’s hoping for a miracle…
A few years back, when I was teaching high school instead of five-year olds, I use to know a thing or two about teenagers. For instance, I knew that you can’t try too hard to be liked by them. It helps to be funny. And don’t take yourself too seriously, or you’ll be the laughing stock of the back-row set. I knew that high-schoolers were independent thinkers. They like discussion. Nothing pleases them more than getting adults off topic and onto controversial topics of interests. And while they are passionate about what they believe in, they appreciate passion and energy in the teachers whose classes they attend, as well. They like courses where the teacher is engaged and ready. And those where the topics are relevant, interesting and deliberate.
Bottom line, teens really just want the adults in their lives, including teachers, to see the best in them. Whatever package that best of theirs comes in.
Around this time of the year, a lot of the high-school students in our area start back to work at the fish plants. The hours are wacky. Usually students would work late into the evening, past my bedtime for sure. And this meant they were either no-shows the next day at school or they fell asleep in class. There was this young guy that use to get attention for coming to school and falling asleep in class. (Um, of course there are more than him that do this, but his story was special!) He worked every night and then arrived at school with the buses. Then as soon as the lights went out, and the overhead projector was turned on, he put his head down on his arms and fell asleep. I had a bit of fascination for that guy. I am sure that there were discussions around his lack of participation in class. And I am sure that he was the bane of some teachers existence. If anything, I can identify with how frustrating it can be to project info to a class of uninterested, sleeping learners.
But what fascinated me about The Boy Who Slept in School was: he showed up. It fascinated some other teachers too. And we use to discuss the reasons for his coming to school, as he could obviously have stayed home and got a better sleep. And years later, when I think about him, I am in awe of how he exhibited his personal best, each and every day. Was he a star student? No. Did he ever receive accolades for achievement? Not so much. Was he any more enlightened for the courses he took? Who knows. What impressed me, indeed what has stuck with me all these years later, was the way in which he gave his personal best, each and every day. While other students gave their best shown via their distinguished marks, while others contributed to rich class discussion, while still others perfected their ability to take notes and listen, while still others acted the class clown and got everyone off topic, this guy’s best was simply in showing up. Showing up for class. Showing up for school. Showing up for himself, whatever his reasons. And in showing up, being there, day in and day out, he made an impact. In acting on an impulse that allowed him choice. He chose to act on that choice and show up.
And through the years, it’s got me thinking. I come back to this topic again and again. About what it means to give your best. About what a personal best looks like. About people, and the bests they offer the world around them. About myself and what my own best looks like, from day-to-day.
And I think where we sometimes err in understanding the word best and what it means is when we use it as a tool to compare. Personal bests are never meant for comparison. My daily best might be quite different than your daily best. And what I have to offer should never be brought up in comparison to your life contributions. We each come from very different places, different mindsets, different backgrounds, different circumstances. And when it comes to defining what is best, bests can run the gamet. Bests are usually different.
Because people are different.
Sometimes, a personal best looks real shiny and pretty. It comes wrapped up in bows and sits on the mantle for all to see. Like when you get an award for good service, or recognition for outstanding achievement. But at other times, your best just means holding it together for the sake of your sanity, and the sake of others around you. It’s about not killing the people in your life who are driving you crazy. It’s about choosing to put one foot in front of another. It’s about choosing to sometimes let things go, even when everyone around you is shaking their head in disapproval. It’s about believing in yourself, even when you are not making the mark, when you are falling short from traditional standards. It’s about showing up, when what your exhausted self would rather do is sleep. Forever.
And there are times when showing up is too hard. And one’s personal best becomes just choosing life. Choosing breath over dying. And letting each moment lead to the next. Being one’s best is many different things. And the beauty of being one’s best self, is that it is tailored to fit the person perfectly. Bests come in all shapes and sizes. And personal bests, like snowflakes, never truly look the same twice.
If we chose to see the best in the people around us, to truly believe that each and every person around us was giving their best, in the ways that they were able, how might the world look?
I recently had opportunity to separately talk to two partners in the same failing marriage. From both perspectives, there is a lot of negativity. But when I see these two people, I see two amazing individuals. People with possibility. And I can’t help but wonder, what would things be like for them if they only saw what I see…heard what I heard. That each person is doing their best. That each is a beautiful individual, full of potential and possibility.
I often have discussions around the struggling students in our school systems. These are positive, rich conversations about how best to help these students find their personal best. And I can’t help but wonder, if every teacher, every parent, every individual with connection to a child realized that each student brings their personal best to school, regardless of how that looks and measures up, wouldn’t the school system and our homes be drastically different places?
And past that, if the world was able to be seen through a lens of caring, realizing that we are broken, fragile, hurting people. People who sometimes make tragic mistakes. People who can’t always be let off the hook for wrongs done, but people with some hidden good- somewhere inside, wouldn’t the gift be to try and see, in as much as we are possibly able, the best in people?
Because I believe we all have a best. It just looks different depending on the lens from which we view.
In as much as we are able, how can we then see each one’s best? How then can we not? Does not the peaceful functioning of the world depend on this? We talk about peace, but if we cannot find peace with the people around us, and see that they are bringing their best to the table of life, peace is not an option. We need for our own security and stability, for people to see our best. It’s time we saw the best in others.
And maybe it starts with acknowledging those people for whom their best is simply this. Showing up. And choosing life. Choosing to be civil over angry. Choosing to be calm over irate. And when those are not options. Choosing to be still.
For it’s in the stillness that all our bests shine the brightest.
We sit across from one another in a cramped booth. She talks, I lean in. There is urgency in casual lunch meetings of this nature. And we both know that all too soon, time will snatch away these precious moments. And the body language says it all. Urgent!! This is important!! Don’t interrupt. That is, I want to hear her. So, I lean closer. And I sense the ticking of the clock, I feel the need to say much in this very little time and space that we have been allotted. I feel the urgency. To preserve the moment, to freeze frame. For it is fast slipping away, and time is of the essence. Both distance and time have separated this friendship for far too long. And it is well-past time to re- unite with a dear friend. To reclaim territory lost and discover new found horizons.
Such is the beauty of the life-long friend. It is hard to put into words the easy comfort found in reconnecting with a friend who knows your past. The present does not seem so relevant in these kinds of friendships. It’s all about the painted portrait of the past. When friendship is rediscovered after a period of dormancy, it is all the more precious. When it is lost after years of connection, it is that much more painful.
When friendship is this way, it can seem so very easy. For there is little to maintain in sporadic meetings of this nature. One picks up where one left off, with few rules attached to the maintenance of the under-workings in the relationship. And one can be fooled into thinking friendship is easy. Fool-proof.
Or is it? Friendship can be so very difficult. And keeping certain friendships, maintaining them. Painfully hard. Sometimes it all seems such desperate hard work. So much can be misunderstood when two people are involved. So often words said in haste. So quickly can a mood shift. So sadly can it all unravel. Such difficult, tedious, taxing work to keep it all together! To keep the friendship going.
And tonight, I grieve the loss of certain friendships, even while I celebrate the re-kindling of old friendships recently discovered. For friendship is powerful. It can make or break. It has the power to lift and lower. Friends are movers and shakers. And we need people, but oh! how hard it can be by times to keep everything from unraveling.
Granted, we are a relational people, we depend on one another. We need each other. And we need friends. But when that need for companionship, for company is unrealized, it hurts. It hurts to lose out on friendship. Because we need our friends. And we care. Care is what defines a casual connection from a close personal one: the amount to which we care.
When one finds the treasure of a friend willing to stand by through thick and thin. Through the best of the best and the worst of the worst, they have found something of priceless worth. For a friend loves at all times. Even when they disagree. Even when the issues seem insurmountable. Even when the choices made are fundamentally different. Friends stand by each other. Friends don’t give up.
Thank God for friends who stick.
I have That Friend. And today when I hit rock bottom. Again. He listened. And stuck through the hard stuff. And heard me say the things that are sometimes hard to hear. And he didn’t walk away, or tell me that it was silly. Crazy. Pointless. That I was off on another one of my famous tirades. Nah. Instead, he listened. And patiently.
And it made me realize that the friendships which survive the fire are the ones worth keeping. Worth throwing down the gauntlet for. These kinds of friendships: wherein you know one another’s secrets and you keep them. Wherein you listen to each other’s heart and you hold it carefully, protecting it from harm. Wherein you treasure it. Those friendships are worth fighting for.
Those friendships. Those friends. The kind of friend whom has watched you blossom from girl to woman. That friend is worth investing in. That friend who sees you at your very worst, and still looks deep into places riddled with complicated concerns, seeing the best you have to show for yourself. He’s worth standing by. Don’t take him for granted. Don’t take her for granted.
That kind of friendship is rare. It needs to be protected.
And as I sat in the sun today on the veranda, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. Ready to push him away. Again. Because it was all too complicated to explain. Too frustrating to try to unravel the world’s problems on an Easter Sunday afternoon. He sat there unflappable, right in front of me. Blocking my sun. Unwilling to move until I had my say. And then, stayed on to hear it all. Until all was said and we finally sat in comfortable silence.
And I realized. While I grieve other friendships that have come and gone, the hurt of loss and the pain of separation, I am so very grateful for his friendship. That has stayed the course. That has been unwavering. Faithful. So reflective of my Father’s loving friendship. That it moves me to quiet contemplation.
And I am convinced that the rare life-long friendship found in marriage is a hidden treasure when it is discovered. It is the pull that brought the woman to the man. And it can be re-discovered. It can be rekindled.
That moment. When you feel so very, very horrible. And all because you have left your middlest child at the rink, waiting for the better part of an hour because you had no way to get in touch with her. And all because you were driving from Point A to Point B to Point C to Point D. And on the way you nearly ran out of gas.
And then. When you finally did arrive and met your crying child at the door of the rink, her friend says to you, eyes raised as she breezes by, “She sure was getting worried.” And you later find out that ‘said’ friend also asked your child, “Does she always forget you like this?”
That moment. When the semi-middlest child tells you that you never give her enough attention, that you always favor the youngest because they’re the baby. That you never listen to her. Oh! That dreadful word never. Never, never, never.
That moment when Oldest tells you that you never (there it is again…) go to the rink to watch his games; or that, at the very least, you are not there as much as he would like. That you never pick out the right kind of jeans, that you don’t buy the right kinds of cereal. That you don’t live up to all his wildest expectations of what a mama should do and say or be.
And you think you might be a fail.
That moment. When your older child takes a compliment you’ve given to a younger child and turns it into a stab in her own back. As if to say. That in complimenting anyone else, it automatically means attacking someone other than them in the process.
That moment when you are trying to tell everyone how well they’ve done, how very proud you are. And no one is listening because it is not about their own very selves, at that very second.
And you feel so very tired.
That moment. When you are worn down and drug out and used up because of life. And because you went to bed late the night before. And all because you were booking a solo ticket south FOR YOURSELF. For the very reason that you dropped a chair on your foot earlier in that same evening. And that incident was the last straw that broke the camel’s back.
Because you’ve hardly given your own worn-out self any attention lately.
That moment, …THAT MOMENT. When you look at your hands, at your feet; and they look…old. When you look at your body and it seems flabby. When you look at your eyes, and they seem tired.
That, my dear Mama, is the moment you realize. That being a mother is the hardest gig you’ve ever had to do. Harder than anything. Ever. And a secret part of your own self knows this to be true: that the reason God doesn’t let us look forward is because in His great wisdom, He knows a mother’s heart would fail if she knew all that was to come. Yet. In His great mercy, He allows us to look back and see how far we’ve come.
That moment. When a Mama gives herself grace. When she forgives herself, even when her four precious off-spring in their immaturity cannot. And she tells herself:
“Well done, Warrior Mama. You are doing a bang-up job being a Mom. You are doing me proud, Self. I know how hard you work at this. Keep on keeping on, Soldier Mama. There will come a day when this too will pass, and you will forget how hard it was and only remember how awesome you did at the hardest job know to human-kind. Mothering. You are beautiful, wise, full of grace upon grace. And your children will one day rise up and call you blessed. Don’t you ever give up.”
That moment is what keeps me going. Keep on keeping on, soldiers.
I am steering the van towards after-school destination numero deux in project “My Life as a Chauffer.” A tired Kindergartener rides solo in the backseat, a motley assortment of Foodland bags/backpacks/other odds and ends ride shotgun in the passenger side. And all the while, Veggie Tales blares in the background. One male character says to his sidekick, “Do you think she’ll like me?” To which comes the response, “She has to like you…under order of banishment or imprisonment.”
I wish I could jump into the script and wring that little gourd’s rubbery neck. But I resist. Because in a world of cartoon characters, it is that easy. To draw the lines, shade in the edges and round out the scene. If you want it to happen, it will happen. Just write it in the script. If you want a happy ending, wave the magic wand. Done.
If only life were so easy.
And when real life is factored into the equation. And the show is over and real-life begins. That’s when the truest test of character is evidenced. When the chips are down, and everything is laid bare to the raw bones. It’s when we are at our lowest that we see what stuff we’re really made of.
Can we truly find joy even in weariness?
It’s the gradual wearing away, the erosion of patience and understanding and empathy that really hurts. The endless trips we make back and forth, from home to goodness know where else. It’s the lack of time for meaningful conversations. The sleepless nights. The gray hair. It’s the little things that wear us down and make it hard to be thankful.
Living life with gratitude sometimes means one must offer thanks at the most un-opportune moments. Uttering words of gratitude even for those things in life of which one is not always fully enjoying, passionately loving, deriving pleasure or benefiting greatly from nor receiving back a large measure of happiness. Sometimes we give thanks for the smallest of things. And in the one item of thankfulness, it can often more than balance the scales in the long run. Life lived in gratitude is the truest measure of joy.
Tonight. I am thankful for:
My ignorant bliss this morning as I slept in almost an hour past my alarm. My body needed that little bit extra.
Not losing my patience as I coped with having slept in way past what I should have done.
Nutri-grain bars. Great breakfast option on the run.
That domino game I forgot about. As I also forgot my math teacher’s edition, it was a great pinch-hit for a harried teacher.
My colleague who offered me a domino worksheet last Thursday. Whoever would have dreamed it would’ve come in so handy (#loveyoumarlenewarren)
Five-year old helpers. Who are almost already out the door even before I get my thoughts out of my head and into words.
A husband who packed my lunch today. And always.
Cell-phones that are not broken.
Schedules that allow windows of opportunity.
Supper meals without fighting.
And these, dear friends, are just a few of my favorite things.
Humble pie always is the hardest to swallow. But before I get to that, let’s start with this.
Wednesday’s incident. I was still trying to get over that. Wednesday. Our busiest day of the week, hands down. We have umpteen dozen things to do between dawn and dusk, and that’s just the day job. Then comes Synchro, CanSkate, cheer practice and piano lessons. And that’s just the extra-curricular. I won’t bore you with the mundane of supper, homework, piano practice, yada, yada.
But who’s keeping track, right?
So, back to Wednesday. While all the above was in full swing, I was just returning from a colleague’s father’s wake and then from a visit to my Aunt and Uncle -in-laws, where I had put in a request for a professional reference (because I am not busy enough and have decided to do my Master’s this summer.) And I was continuing along my way through the heated section of the rink- the place where the cold-blooded parents like myself have to go sit to watch their children trip/stumble/glide around the ice. And I was heading toward the seat beside Husband. Who was nodding off in his chair.
And that’s when I noticed her.
Our daughter. Who had been sent to the rink in snow pants. With the full expectation that Husband would thoroughly gear her up, after having gone through the over-sized Mark’s Work Wear House bag full of skating tights, dresses, legwarmers and the like. Which I had risked being late for work to pack. And the expectation was that he would fully dress her for her Can Skate session. Because that is what I would do, and goodness knows. I do it right every time!! And then some.
But I digress.
In fact, it was what she was NOT wearing that caught my attention. What she was not wearing as she travelled full-throttle across the ice from station to station was a skating dress. Instead, she was wearing nothing from the waist down, unless you count a skimpy little pair of nude tights as something. Because I am afraid that some people might have been left with the impression, particularly those who might be near-sighted, that she was indeed wearing. Nothing. Nada. As nude tights can be very deceiving. Especially on a five-year old.
And what was Husband doing on his watch? Mm, hmmm. Dozing off.
“I thought she looked a little different,” his comment to me, as I choked on my spearmint gum.
So fast forward to today. Friday. I am heading to the grocery store after having dropped off the three girls at a birthday party, for which we are an hour late. And this, because a Certain Someone may or may not have taken down the wrong details concerning when the party started. I am feeling heat rising again along my neck, travelling up to my ears. From whence steam is spurting out through my ears. Because I am so self-rightous. And I would never forget to remember the time a birthday party starts.
And for certain. This look is entirely not becoming to me. At all.
But I manage to pull myself together and pay for the groceries. And then on a lark, I remember that I have misplaced my debit card. So, I casually mention to the cashier that although I CAN pay for my groceries, “would you please check and see if I might have, possibly, left my debit card here?” (#whatarethechances) And while they are looking, I also casually mention to anyone in earshot that I have a problem with holding onto plastic cards. So when the kind lady comes out of the office, after having searched high and low for my card, and she says, “Sorry, no card,”…I all but forget my angst from moments before and sadly turn to leave the store.
Yup, forgetting to retrieve my VISA card.
And that is the moment that the three onlookers, two teenage cashiers and one supervisor look at the debit machine. Where my VISA still protrudes, in lonely isolation. And then they all three turn back to look at me and say this:
“Well. Are you going to take your VISA with you?”
You know that moment? The one where you feel like an idiot? Because you’ve just about lost your VISA, along with your debit card? That moment when you remember that EVERYONE makes mistakes? Husbands (who forget skating dresses and birthday party details). Wives (who lose their plastic cards). Children (who have meltdowns). Friends. People in general, really. And that we all need grace. And more grace to top off the latter.
And in a very personal way, I remember this: that my pride always precedes my fall. And finally this: Humble pie always is the hardest to swallow.
Sometimes (just a wee tiny bit…), I wish I was her. You know her. That girl. That girl, who seemingly has it all together. Who’s all that and then some. Whom I admire from afar.
I’ll admit it. I read her books, her articles, her blogs. I see her out and about, I watch her on television. She has the perfect look. She is together in every way. And that’s just the surface, really. ‘Cause she’s more than meets the eye: she’s got talent. She can write like a dream, she’s athletic, musical, smart; she has ambition to spare. She is going places.
And her family. It’s perfect too. Everyone gets along, her kids are angels. Her Husband spoils her. Her in-laws dote on her. She has a friend at every turn. She is sought after for her expertise, her wisdom.
Her career. Don’t get me started. Life just flows along for her. Uninterrupted.
And sometimes. I find myself wishing that I was her.
I’ll come clean, for the record. I dream that the perfect life would be like that. Seamlessly, flowing downstream. Idyllic and carefree. Easy-peasy. Effortless.
And then I remember. Ah yes. I remember…
Life. It’s not (like that). Life is hard. It’s tough. It’s beautiful and brutal all mixed together. It’s brutiful. Even for her. Maybe even especially for her.
And while she might have some things more together than me, that’s okay. Truthfully I’ve got little, to no time to work on appearances, let alone taking time for everything else. Those things that I long for yet seem just out of reach. All the bigger things of life. Like deepening friendships, and being more of a deliberate, thoughtful parent. Like making wise career decisions and exposing myself to enriching life-learning experiences. Like strengthening extended family connections. And offering more time to school, community and church extra-curricular services.
I get exhausted just thinking about it. And that’s just the conscious level of my existence. Underneath the obvious stuff of life is that hidden layer. Where all the emotions, fears, joys and sorrows lie. Where the real action happens. It’s where I think about all the other stuff. And where I make decisions and choices about who I am and who I choose to be. It’s where I really live.
Sadly, it’s not just my Self that I often wish to change. It’s everything else around me too. It’s life in all its intricacies. It’s the realities of life that are beyond my control. It’s that difficult relationship, that challenging child, that painful memory. And when you add those experiences to my own frustrating bad habits, my inability and resistance to change that one thing in myself that would make life easier, life just seems overwhelming. Too big to fix. It is sometimes the composite of both the personal and the public that push me to say: “It’s not worth it. It’s too hard.” And that combo urges me to heed those other voices calling at me to, “Throw in the towel.”
To walk away.
But just when I reach the brink, the edge of the cliff. Just before I fall. I am stirred from within. From deep within my soul. From the cries of the heart come the answers to life’s greatest questions. That still small Voice that sweetly whispers, “Stay the course. Keep on, keeping on.” That Voice that encourages me to not run away. But rather, to turn back. To try harder. To work it out.
To live the life. With grace, with gratitude. With love.
Because the Person behind the Voice believes that I am worth it. That the people in my life are worth it. And He believes that life in all it messy glory, it is worth it. It is worth it to batten down the hatches even through the storm. For the sake of ourselves. For the sake of our families. For the sake of our future.
For the sake of life.
And in that quiet place where I can just be, I have found that I am who I am suppose to be. Flaws and all. I don’t always remember that who I am is enough, but I am slowly learning. Even in its raw fragility, in its exposed imperfection: the life I’ve been given is the perfect one for me. Changing features of my life can alter everything. Sometimes it is best to accept and embrace. To fight for my given life with every fiber of my being.
To not let go the ropes.
For in weakness, I am made strong. In imperfections, I am made whole. In love, I am being perfected. And when we as people truly begin to love ourselves the way God loves us, we are then free to love each other.
Wholly, humbly and completely.
Able to accept things in life which are not exactly as we wish them to be. Willing to change in ourselves what we can, but then able to embrace the rest of life that we cannot control. And further able to love the people God has placed in our lives with a love that covers a multitude of problems and frustrations.
And when this transformation occurs, life suddenly becomes beautiful. It is still brutal, but there is beauty in the harsh realities. Beauty is traded for ashes.
And life is everything we dreamed it could be. And then some.
I have been fascinated and greatly inspired by the portraits, pictures and photographs other people have taken and posted on-line over the holidays. A slew of pictures came across my Facebook feed over the past couple of weeks with beautiful pictures of homes and décor, along with gorgeous family pictures and portraits of beautiful children dressed up in Christmas finery. I was so inspired by these photographs that I thought I would set out to take and post some pictures of my own.
But when I started to look around my home and then focused my gaze through the undiscriminating eye of the lens, I was continually frustrated by what I was seeing. My snapshots of our home did not look as picture-perfect as those I had witnessed in other photographs. Nor were my family photographs as full of character and winsome charm. The red eye/alien eye was annoying and the sharpness contrast was not as defined as I would have liked it. And sometimes there were even things in the pictures I did not want there. Like plastic bags that would appear as if from nowhere. And those green extension cords to power candles, where does one tuck them away neatly? A picture on the wall was often askew. And the poor, forsaken angel on my tree was leaning a bit too far to the front. Ready to topple on top of an unsuspecting child looking for a forgotten toy that might have happened to still be under the tree. And there were other odds and ends that made the pictures less than perfect, serving to add to my frustration with what I was viewing through the truth of my camera lens.
As if this wasn’t enough to keep me down, I decide to try to take some pictures outside. In natural light. What could possibly go wrong? I organize the children and Darling Husband together for a snowman-building project. As soon as things get going, one child has already pummeled another child in the face with snow, while I run around trying to capture everyone in some sort of artistic impression of a snowy afternoon of fun. As the afternoon wears on, the kids become bored or cranky and the numbers gradually dwindle. Leaving me no choice but to put down the camera and pitch in. Meanwhile, the snowman is coming along nicely. We have him at about 7 ½ feet high, with two black paint can covers for his eyes, rose hips for his smile and the traditional carrot nose. Hydrangea buttons and two twig arms topped off the remainder of his extremities, and I “borrow” Husband’s fur-lined ear-flap hat that he bought as a souvenir in Europe. To keep Mr. Snowman’s head warm.
Things are just about ready for the big photo shoot. I convince the One in the house to “please” come out, and I round up the rest of the troops. And then I call Husband to grab the camera from the front passenger side of the van, while I run back to arrange everything.
The scene is just about perfect. Never mind the fact that everything has fallen apart mid-snowman assembly. All that matters is the picture. The kids are placed strategically around the snowman, and I quickly look back at Brian as I call out for him to take the picture. When I look back again at the kids, I am horrified to see that the snowman is leaning. It is most definitely leaning. Then, it is no longer leaning…it is falling. Falling, pell-mell. Run for cover! And in a sudden rush, snow begins to fall in an avalanche as I scream for the kids to, “RUN!” Littlest One narrowly missing the snowman’s belly landing on her head. Snow falling everywhere. Kids crying. I am awe-struck. Husband stands in disbelief, his camera still ready to shoot. And so he does. And this is the prize picture he took.
Life is not about taking the perfect picture. It is about the big picture. And the smaller ones that define and describe who and what we are. Husband said to me, after the snowman fell, “He’s just like all of us. Falling apart and getting re-built bigger and better again.” And I agree. Our family life is all about that and then some. Falling down and getting back up again. A million and one times. Life is all about the moments that pictures cannot ever capture. It is about both the perfect and imperfect moments that are the real deal outside the lens. Not necessarily what’s always seen through the lens. Rather, the best pictures are those seen with the naked eye through the lens of the heart.
We are sitting in circular formation, teaching colleagues, acquaintances and friends. The atmosphere is warm and inviting. Soft lights sparkle on a tree over against the wall. And we wait. In anticipation.
Our facilitator directs everyone’s attention to the meeting at hand and then asks us to introduce ourselves. A discussion begins as to what we might say by way of introduction. Should we share a book we are reading? Seems too formal. We are then given allowance to introduce ourselves and then share a part of our story, as we feel led. Each woman before me introduces herself as a mother, sharing about her children, her connection to them and some kind of predicament attached to being a mother. One describes herself as ‘living vicariously’ through her children.
I have no idea what I’m going to say.
It is my turn, and I have to think fast. What few words can I give that will encapsulate the essence of what it means to be me? What can one say in so few words? After all, first impressions mean a lot. It is hard to dissolve a wall built on a quickly formed judgment. I decide to stop thinking and talk.
“My name is Lori Gard and I have four children.”
I do have four children whom I love dearly. They have been the heart and soul of my existence for as long as I have known of their presence. I have placed my own interests on the altar of self-sacrifice for them many times over. But still. Is this how I want to define myself? Am I a mother first? Or am I Lori?
“For many years, I lived vicariously through my children. So much so, I began to lose parts of myself. After some time, I fell into a dark place. It was then that I discovered writing. Writing helped me find myself again.”
Ah, now I remember. I remember who, I remember why. And for this moment, I will speak. And then later on, after four tired children are tucked into bed and the lights go dim, I will write. Therefore I am. A writer. And if not for writing, I jokingly told someone recently, I would have been driven to strong drink. Instead, I am driven to write. I write about everything. About my faith, my day, my children, my relationships, my job, my feelings, my frustrations, my fears and my joys. Writing has delivered me from being swallowed up by the many varied hats I wear. Of course, I am child, mother, wife, sister, friend, colleague. All these in service to others. And at one time in my life, I did not feel capable of identifying as anything other than that of my relationship to others.
But today. I can proudly say I am free of that bondage. I am Lori.
I am partial to blog style writing. I enjoy playing piano. I have a weakness for reading book club recommendations, whether they be Heather’s picks from Chapters, Oprah’s book club picks or those touted by bloggers I follow. I love to go on long walks down scenic pathways. I am fond of chocolate covered pretzels. I crave Kettle cooked potato chips at bedtime. I need to get a fill of Facebook before hitting the hay. I love candles, scented cream, fuzzy socks, photographs, coffee, newspapers, fleece sheets, board games and Clark’s shoes, all in no particular order.
I feel deeply about many issues. Faith. Family. Education. Healthy living. Exercise. The importance of communication. Personal development. Professional development. Prejudice. Bullying. Empathy. Inclusion. Gratitude. Giving to those less fortunate than myself. Giving to those more fortunate than myself. Because all of giving is about grace and compassion. I feel deeply about all these. And more.
Because of course I know that I cannot be narrowly defined by a single feature of my persona, confining my identity to being only a lover of chocolate covered pretzels or reader of blogs. For I am more. So much more than these.
“I am Lori. I write for a hobby. And it’s really nice to be here.”
I am standing in front of him, my fists clenched. I feel frustration in every pore, every cell. My blood pressure is on the rise. Pulsating. Throbbing. Everything is crashing down around me, and I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. Sometimes a day just seems to bring more than one has bargained for, this day being one of those kinds of days. A day of near regrets, approaching hopelessness; too close to madness and my unravelling, for this girl’s liking. When one is left wondering “why” and “what if”. Left wondering “what next?”
It is easy to cast blame, especially when an equally strident man stands in front of you looking an easy target. This, a true showdown, will for will, an eye for an eye. At stake, as always, is the validity of the commitment to these: home and family. Vows and covenant promises. Unconditional love. Our future. Us.
We both have a lot to lose. And a lot to gain. The choice is ours to make.
It has been said that in any marriage, there are grounds for divorce. The trick is finding grounds for marriage. Everywhere I look these days, I see the signs of marriage breakdown. Facebook. Television. Literature. Real-life. Marriages are failing, divorce is winning. It is difficult to find anyone anywhere whose life has not been affected in some way by the damage of marital breakdown.
Marriage is hard. It is difficult to co-exist with someone on the best of terms. People are tricky. We all come into marriage with a story, with baggage. And as we travel life’s uncertain path, with the spouse of our choosing, life does not get easier- it gets harder. More murky. Trickier to navigate. There are more pitfalls. And quite by sudden, there comes a day when we wake up and realize that our spouse is not quite so charming anymore. Not quite so exciting. Not quite what we want anymore.
Because we’ve also changed. In some of the very same ways in which they have changed.
Two less-than-charming, not-quite-so-exciting, not-quite-so-likeable individuals who have changed in very similar ways often find it too hard to continue trudging along the same pathways. It is easier, and sometimes more sensible, to part ways. Following pathways easier to navigate. Less constricting. More manageable.
To d.i.v.o.r.c.e.
But what if these marriages did not succumb to the ‘d’ word? What if couples stepped back from one another and realized this. That the individual with whom they share their life is more than a problem. They have a story; they are a face, a soul. A mystery. For some of the best gifts in life come inside the least promising packages. And each is a person with a compilation of life experiences and baggage equally as weighty and intricately balanced on a tightrope of responsibility as is the other’s. They are still the man or woman they always were, just slightly damaged, slightly jaded, slightly broken. Possibly, a person in need of compassion and forgiveness. Possibly, in need of second chances. In need of unconditional love.
What if we all loved like this:
1 Corinthians 13
New International Version (NIV)
13 If I speak in the tongues[a] of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 2 If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 3 If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast,[b] but do not have love, I gain nothing.
4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
8 Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. 9 For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10 but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. 11 When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. 12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
13 And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
What would the grounds for divorce be then?
I realize that some marriages must be nulled, for safety and sensibility and for the general welfare of all those involved. But not without first having given grave thought and consideration to the grounds for marriage. And to the price we pay for throwing it all away.
For it is the grounds for divorce that must be proven beyond doubt. And not the grounds for marriage.
