Some thoughts on imposters, cheating and battle hymns.

/0 Comments/in /by

“Mom, your calves are popping!” My daughter exclaimed last night. I was walking in front of her as we left our dear friend’s house after an evening of feeling more blessed when we left than when we’d arrived. “What does that even mean????” My inner voice whispered. At the same moment, my body startled (involuntarily) as she verbalized something about these, MY legs, now the center of attention. Even after years of processing my own reactions, connections to emotions and everything in between, I found myself reacting just like I typically do to positive comments, especially about my body: with a passive tone of voice, “well, thanks, I am not sure why you are saying that,” or “thanks, but…” Besides the fact that “popping” is a new one to me and I can only assume that is positive, I still, at 50 do not know how to consistently appreciate this body.

As I was stretching and working on these muscles this morning, my mind drifted back to my daughter’s exclamation last night. Like a picture that slowly comes into focus, I realized that as I thought about her positivity about my muscle tone, the feeling I have most, is shame….

I wonder if you relate? In my office, I so often see eyes drop, hear tones of voice become softer, garbled, drift off or even a little disgruntled when the idea of appreciation of self is brought up. I’ve said it in other posts (and probably will again), that our society is 80% kinder to others than ourselves. (Check out the work of Dr. Kristin Neff at The Center for Mindful Self Compassion if you want to read more.) While I experience this number as higher in my work with clients, I too struggle to be equally kind to myself as I am to others. Why is it so hard to just say, “heck yes, my calves are popping?”

I began, with intentional curiosity to think about the shame I felt as my daughter complimented my calves last night. Much like the moment when we realize the correct answer when taking a test, I realized that when she complimented my calves, I felt like a complete imposter.

Cerebral Palsy causes my muscles to misfire, the part of my brain that regulates the “firing” is technically damaged. The vulnerability in me winces writing that and yet, it is the truth. My muscles fire beyond my control all the time, resulting in a lot of tone. The deep down thought for me regarding all my tone is that “it’s not real, athletes work for that and therefore earn the compliment. I don’t.” It is also hard to appreciate tone that can also make moving become much more difficult.

The very next thought was a memory of moving to another city just before high school, meeting new friends (that summer) and having my new friends remark about my “ripped biceps.” My only context for such a phrase was watching weight lifting in the Olympics. I began to wear longer sleeve t-shirts because in my mind, I didn’t want to look like a body builder. I didn’t know it was a compliment, and I felt fake. I hadn’t done any athletic hard work to earn their confusing to me compliments about my body. The fact was, people were complimenting a body that I didn’t like, understand and truly, wanted DESPERATELY to change. There weren’t enough positives for me about this body at that point to counteract my insecurity and imposter syndrome.

I wonder if I am not alone, that imposter syndrome is alive and well inside all of us to one degree or another, this side of heaven. Defined as the condition of feeling anxious and not experiencing success internally, despite being high-performing in external, objective ways, this condition often results in people feeling like “a fraud” or “a phony” and doubting their abilities. It is most often born from insecurity that has taken root and grown a tree of shame inside us. Once that tree is there, it is hard to see around it, becomes a part of every picture we have of ourselves. And for me, it has become siblings with the idea of “cheating.” Please let me explain.

One example…when I upgraded this spring to a recumbent pedal assist bike, I really had to work through the idea of cheating with that extra assistance. The perception with e-bikes, at least how I heard them, was that “people are just joy-riding.” The first time I rode that bike, 30 minutes after we purchased it, a neighbor commented, “that’s such a cool bike,” then looking closer stated, “oh, it’s got a motor, you are cheating!” Shame, imposter and “cheating” hopped on my bike and rode along. I can go faster than my husband on our rides now, but feel like I have to qualify it with, “yea, but only because of the motor.”

How many of us have those same passengers, riding around permanently? You may or may not be shocked to hear how many times I hear about imposter syndrome in the midst of sessions. Mine is occasionally cerebral palsy related, but it is many reasons for many people. It is like an old soundtrack that is ominous, “what if they find out this is the real part of me, not what they might think or believe…”

As I sit quietly, truth descends quickly, much quicker than it did when I was younger. I can kindly let the difficult feelings and memories (even shame) come forth, sit with them and then also engage in the truth. I know that (even when my perceptions and insecurities want to lie and make me believe otherwise) we are NOT imposters. God is the God of truth and gift-giving. He is perfect in his making and perfecting who he is within us. I am so very grateful….

“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” “Psalm 139:14

Both/And in being human, right? We KNOW this verse perhaps, but applying and believing it? Much more difficult. One of the ways I help clients is to imagine how we would speak to our dearest friend and try to counteract that loud imposter with the “kindest thing you can say to yourself.” I encourage them to slow down and find a positive truth to counteract the loud lies…one truth at a time.

I pray for overwhelming kindness and compassion for ourselves and others. I pray for appreciation of the bodies God has created and given. And I pray for overwhelming truth and care, this side of heaven.

I was having a conversation with friends yesterday about “what our walkout song might be?” For me, there has been an anthem shared from a dear friend years ago. It embodies hope and crying out in the beautiful and the moments I brought to my knees.

https://youtu.be/BqgW727a-RU

“Hallelujah, hallelujah, every broken heart, be brave. Hallelujah, hallelujah, the Lord will make a way.” A prayer and anthem for us all. It is my deepest, truest prayer.

May we give the lies to Jesus, rest in his love and truth and keep doing all he has called us to. May we always keep trying to be kind, as much to ourselves as we are to everybody else. May we let our own imposter know that they are no longer needed and that our true self is worth trusting. May we learn to accept others appreciation of us with the same love and care it was given.

Both/And

Psalm 139

143

/0 Comments/in /by

It was a snowy afternoon, one of those where we as a family had a clear Sunday on the calendar, a truly miraculous thing. Even more shocking to me, as a mom of teens, was the fact that after lunch had been cleaned up, I wandered into the main area of our house and found it empty. This wasn’t new, especially as clean-up began. The family tale has always been that my grandpa’s sister, Aunt Betty, would always “need to go the bathroom” just as clean-up began. In reality, I think we all want to disappear at these points in post-meal chores, but our kids do a fantastic job helping, all over the house. Still, on the this particular day, I had gone to change clothes and found myself in a seemingly empty house.

I wasn’t sad – a fire started in our fireplace, courtesy of my husband who I could hear in the garage, already invested in something of his own. I curled up in our oversized sectional with a cozy blanket, trying to decide what I needed with this unexpected gift of quiet and being alone. I grabbed a journal, which didn’t feel quite right. Not my coloring, or napping. What did I need? 

I suddenly remembered the documentary on Mr. Rogers that had come out a few months prior. Yes! I could feel something align inside myself, but was not sure why…after searching the too many streaming services we pay for, I found “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” and could feel my soul settle just a bit further. With a cup of tea, fire crackling, my favorite fragrant candle giving me sweet memories of summer and my pup snoring on my lap, I hit PLAY on the remote and heard a familiar sound…. a few piano notes, a voice so kind, and THEN…. the familiar, ringing bells of Trolley. I couldn’t help but smile and instantly began to sing along with a seemingly forgotten song…”would you be mine, could you be mine, won’t you be my neighbor…” (are you singing along too, just reading the words? I thought you might be…)

The first few minutes gave glimpses of Mr. Rogers history, beginning with a sepia toned video of a young Fred Rogers, tickling the keys of a baby grand piano, rehearsing how he would describe feelings to a child. Cut to a group of children clamoring for his attention and with laser focus, the gift of his attention and response to one after another. Cut to a description from his producer, describing the many reasons why “Mr. Rogers Neighborhood SHOULD NOT HAVE worked” and then, this: Mr. Rogers, saying earnestly into the camera, “Love is at the root of everything, all learning, all parenting. Love or the lack of it. What we see and hear is part of what we become.”

As strange as it is to say regarding a documentary, I was completely riveted in 4:41 minutes. I could feel a few different things at the exact same time: It felt like a warm sunbeam shining on my face, simply seeing images and hearing Mr. Rogers, Trolley, Daniel and the many other sounds of the neighborhood. I sat there, my adult self invested in the well-done documentary, and the delight of reconnecting with an old friend, the safety and understanding in his words, because these have become such a core beliefs for me as well. Up until those 4 minutes and 41 seconds, I hadn’t known that he was someone with whom I held such similar beliefs. 

A memory emerged, a fuzzy photo in my mind of watching Mr. Rogers Neighborhood when I was very young. I could see myself, legs in a W, munching on cheerios, enthralled with Mr. Rogers and his land of make believe. I recalled his puppets, their personalities, the big red, yellow and green light, his voice, calm, caring and completely free of judgement. 

What t started as a feeling throughout my body that day, became something much more over the next 90 minutes. I wanted to know more and more still about this neighbor who I hadn’t seen in far too long. I found the melodies, stories and words returning from a place stored deep in the recesses of my heart, not even knowing I could still feel and sing every word.

I sat there there, a grown up, both safe in my living room, protected from the frigid Michigan winter, comfortably full from a Sunday meal with family and an acute awareness as I watched Mr. Rogers, heard his voice and character eloquently described, that he was indeed a safe, lovely friend to both myself and countless others. The kid inside me remembered the lilt in his voice, the comfort and calm, even as he talked about extremely hard things. I had not been through a war or natural disaster, traumatic death at a young age or divorce. Yet, the child inside me who had grown up with CP has been grappling with differences that I had no idea how to voice, acknowledge or process.

Bessel Vander Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score, “For our physiology to calm down, heal, and grow we need a visceral feeling of safety. No doctor can write a prescription for friendship and love: These are complex and hard-earned capacities. You don’t need a history of trauma to feel self-conscious and even panicked at a party with strangers – but trauma can turn the whole world into a gathering of aliens.

I watched in tears as he normalized issues of both acceptance and pain related to racial atrocity, by inviting Officer Clemmons to cool off his feet in the same pool; as he sang with a young boy, “its you I like,” after sitting with Jeff Erlanger and hearing his story about life in a wheelchair; and as he normalized, simply, “being kind.” He had even left a life-changing impression on a gorilla. Unreal. I was thunderstruck with the ideas that were so important to him, are some of the same beliefs for me that as a therapist (and human) that are imperative in teaching clients about feelings, empathy, self-compassion and healthy coping. 

I began to take notes, noticing the connection and truth I felt internally as Won’t You Be My Neighbor finished.

“If you really want to communicate, the most important thing is to just listen.” – Mr. Rogers

From his character, work ethic, kindness, gentleness and admitted imperfections, I felt an odd camaraderie, almost as if I could understand and value myself better because I was seeing him through the documentary.

He had a tremendous way of just being with people, allowing people to talk and listen well in return. He answered as much of his fan mail as possible, thousands who over the course of time, and for millions, contributed to how they had felt as a kid and still as an adult, even though they only ever met in the neighborhood, ON TV. He showed me and so many others that we were seen. 

He was ahead of his time, tackling issues involving racial inequality, fear, divorce, conflict (even war and assassination) death, inclusivity and healthy coping in eras where most of these might have been avoided. He was also an ordained Presbyterian minister, though he seemed to let his life speak to that so much more than using the words, at least that is how it felt for most in his neighborhood. 

Tom Hanks, who played Mr. Rogers in the 2019 film, “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” said this while promoting the film: “‘There’s an acronym that I’m using now in my own life – W.A.I.T., wait – which stands for “Why am I talking?”‘ Hanks said. ‘You should just sit and start listening to everybody who comes your way and you’ll be amazed at what you learn.” I’ve shared with many clients while also reminding myself. It is just one of many, gems that I hold dear from the life of Mr. Rogers. He emulated my Jesus is so many ways, though I doubt he would’ve seen that about himself. People matter, their thoughts and feelings, needs and struggles. Kindness MATTERS, to others and ourselves. Play, learning and joy, are imperative.

I found myself studying, reading books and videos about his life in the weeks following the snowy Sunday. Everything I read, watched or discovered about Fred Rogers led me back to Jesus, my own calling and gentleness. 

As I have read, watched re-runs, highlighted quotes and wished I could I have tea with Fred, (and honestly, purchased a few more cardigans and even a t-shirt with his image on it) I am left with these truths:

-We are all human so there is no pedestal necessary. Our lives WILL touch others, in either the beautiful or the broken ways. I can only hope and strive for the beautiful and apologize when my broken (or mean or misguided or thoughtlessness) takes over. Mr. Rogers, as well as Jesus, show me the wisdom in being slow to speak, quick to listen and even quicker to offer love. 

“The greatest thing we can do is help somebody know that they’re loved, and capable of loving.” – Mr. Rogers

-All the things MATTER! How crayons are made, how to manage the mad, sad or every other; consistency, presence and play; gorillas, clocks, relationships, honesty, music, humor, reading, artwork, dignity work ethic and I43. (I’ll let you look that one up.) 

“I think Mr. Rogers was one of those people who do their his work seriously and hope that someone would pick up on the seriousness of what they are about.” -Betty Seamans, producer and actress, Mr. Rogers Neighborhood

Don’t we ALL hope that we will be understood, seen for what we are about? I think Mr. Rogers knew it wasn’t just kids that needed to hear how to love and be loved, feel and be strong enough to talk about it. I think he hoped that in teaching kids, it would be easier as adults. The the short version of my favorite quote is ‘whatever is mentionable is manageable.” (I’ll let you look up the long version, it’s also in the beginning of the bothandkeepitreal website.) This is an important belief in my work as a therapist, the seriousness of what I am about. I absolutely BELIEVE in the work of knowing and loving ourselves. My writing has become the joy and purpose in sharing my hope and beliefs. 

What are the important parts of you, the seriousness of what you are about? Don’t be afraid to share it in safe places, it is there you can be seen and cared for, exactly as you are. 

“I like you as you are, exactly and precisely, I think you turned out nicely, and I like you as you are. I children need to hear that, I don’t think anyone can grow unless they are accepted exactly as they are.” Mr. Rogers.

-“His theology (just like Jesus) was love your neighbor as yourself. It was deeply personal and wide open to all,” stated a cast member in the documentary. I think this is why Mr. Rogers still resonates with so many people, 20 years after his death. He was such a human example of the God he loved even if he never said it on the program. This past week, someone noticed the Mr. Rogers sticker on my cup that I always have with me. He commented, “I loved him. There are not people like him anymore.” I stopped myself from fangirling about my friend Fred, but I thought to myself, “I’m really trying to be!”

Still, I know that his unconditional, kind and gentle heart was not and is not the norm. The documentary also explored the nay-sayers and doubters, those who blamed Mr. Rogers for contributing to an entitled generation. Here is the last truth, at least for this post, right from the documentary itself.

“Mr. Rogers was not talking about entitlement. If you don’t believe everyone has inherent value, you might as well go against the fundamental notion of Christianity that you are the beloved son or daughter of God. ” Mr. Rogers explained what you are special means in one of his commencement speeches. “You are special ultimately means that you don’t ever have to do anything sensational for people to love you. You are loved just as you are. You are endowed by your creator with good.” Junlei Li, former co-executive director of the Fred Rogers institute.

“People were intolerant of his tolerance…” Tom Junod

Thank you Jesus and thank you Mr. Rogers for showing us how to live a different way. Thank you for your relentless pursuit of people, love and something so much greater than yourselves. 

May we follow in both Jesus’s and Mr. Rogers example: be tolerant, kind, loving neighbors, to ourselves and each other. May we find Jesus in each other, give grace and mercy extravagantly in many ways and may we love without ceasing….

Both/and

143

PS If you are curious about some of the books or resources I’ve found about Mr. Rogers and his impact, please message or comment and I try to share!

Underdogs and tears, the One who perseveres (and redeems.)

/0 Comments/in /by

For much of my growing up, I heard I was too sensitive, that I needed to get tougher and that even though I cared, sometimes it seemed as if I cared too much. I had so many emotions, in my teenage years, I am sure my parents and siblings felt like they were pretty consistently on a roller coaster. It was much later that I realized that it wasn’t just me, but actually a normal developmental stage for pre-teen and teen girls. I felt my excitement big, my fear bigger, had anxiety that stopped me in my tracks and sadness when others struggled. I am fairly certain that God was, all the while, shaping my sense of empathy; I just needed to grow up a bit in order to understand it.

While I would not change a thing as I look back on my life, at the time I felt like a little kid who did not have a clue how to manage feelings and certainly did not know about both/and. My parents are AVID Olympic fans, something they’ve definitely passed on (ice skating for me, my mom and sister – we all screech like owls while we watch, holding our breath and hoping that the leading US skater would land their axels, spins and salchows.) I still watch the Olympics like it is my job, staying up way too late, cheering and following the inspiring back stories of the elite athletes who make it ALL look so easy.

But even though we watched as a family and talked about the Olympics all the time, I couldn’t make sense the overwhelming awe, often times, sadness and something else it took me years to understand or begin to explain, even to myself: jealousy. I learned in time that there was a tangled knot of emotions, the beautiful and the hard. That’s how all of our experiences are though, as far as I can tell…the both/and in all of life.

When our kids were young, showing interest in new things, I was simply amazed at the way their bodies functioned, with ease, strength and the “normal” that I longed for. Our oldest tried ballet, tumbling and Girl Scouts.

One day I arrived to pick her up and found her troupe playing duck, duck goose to finish the days meeting. I watched, observing the fun of the chase. My experiences had been so different than this, the fear of getting picked because I must be a slow, deliberate runner; fear of tripping, get extremely embarrassed. But I was even more fearful of being “the goose” until I was age 20 because I couldn’t catch “the duck.”

Suddenly a sweet little girl got picked, “Goose!” She let out a breathy giggle as she stood up and threw her head back with laughter as she started chasing. Her long brown hair fell past her shoulders and her excitement at getting chosen simply stunned me.

I took a breath and felt my heart slam in my chest like a timpani drum, for just a few seconds. Along with her irrepressible smile, she ran while wearing medical equipment that was her lifeline, in a backpack. She had a somewhat familiar gait and a sense of wonder I had not encountered at that point in my life. Her mom helped but didn’t hover and little did I know then, the biggest cheerleaders in the duck and goose circle were her sisters, quadruplets.

Tears filled my eyes as the group cheered her on, yelling and encouraging, her giggle and joy nearly filling and bursting that whole room. I will never forget that first time seeing sweet Keyan and how she and her dear family teach me still about acceptance, sacrifice, family and joy. From what I know of her, she had no idea she was born an underdog in so many ways, but really, was anything but.

It’s happened many times over the course of our family life, tears filling my eyes as a teammate or another person “succeeds ” or a news story about someone hospitalized for an extended period, the staff clapping as they “graduate”; scrolling on my phone when a kid or adult who struggles in some way, only to reach the end of a race or goal and finish well, full of pride. My friend’s wheelchair rugby games or watching the elementary kid who participates in a running fundraiser while in a cast. If you have a minute, look up Rick and Dick Hoyt on YouTube…you will get the idea….

My family is not surprised to see me shed a few tears also as we watch different genres of tv, reality shows, athletics events or really, anything with a compelling story. But there are few shows that evoke tears quicker than I can wipe them away, my favorite being American Ninja Warrior.

Have you ever watched the discipline and athleticism with awe? Me too…. But I need to confess, I watch any and all sporting events that same way. Every single athlete who walks out on a field, braves getting across a wet pool deck, balances on starting blocks or diving boards, runs across a shiny gym floor or pole vaults in front of packed stands has in my mind, won a gold medal just for “doing.”

I unbashedly live vicariously through my kids events and events of their friends, not asking them to participate “for me,” but simply watching and soaking in every thing, as if I could somehow feel some tiny bit of team if I pay close enough attention. And the truth is, they ARE the definition of success to me, even before they start to play. For those who can’t even think about even the simplest part of being a part of a team for many different reasons, it is all a wonder, every single part. I really don’t have any frame of reference for how they accomplish so many different things…

Maybe that is why, in every story on ANW, I find inspiration. It is incredible to me, the dedication, strength and control. But it is also the the athletes who defy the odds, who fight their way through both literal and sometimes internal obstacles, who never fail to illicit the “good tears.” I love the achievements, especially when I know how much effort the little things take for so many people, not just as athletes. For some, dedication and strength is finding a way to get out of bed. The kid on the swim team, finishing the race after every other athlete, but does not give up and still finishes. The student who raises their hand in class as anxiety swirls and their stomach clenches because they just became the center of attention. Or the student who reports abuse at the hands of a family member, despite the waves of shock and conflict sure to ensue in the aftermath. Yes, the good and hard tears, most certainly….

I read a story recently in one of the Disney groups I follow, that if I can paraphrase, went a bit like this: A single mom who battles extreme anxiety and claustrophobia, saved for about a year to take her kids to Disney World, even though the idea of close quarters on the rides was utterly terrifying to her. She “didn’t want them to miss out because of her.” She got on a ride and began to experience a severe panic attack before the ride even began. She hastily got off and a cast member quickly made her way to her side. The cast member let her sit in an unused ride vehicle, then went on the ride with her, pointing out exits and “Easter eggs.” (details hidden throughout the ride to broaden the story and sometimes pay homage to designers.) The mom couldn’t stop crying as she made it all the way through the ride. So much bravery and strength. (Yes, I cried a bit, reading that story.)

In 2019, Kodi Lee made his way across the audition stage on America’s Got Talent, his mom next to him. He walked with a cane and his mom was beaming and steadfast. She described his early diagnoses, blindness and autism. She described him as “an entertainer,” how music saved his life…but silence after the introductions was palpable. There was a long pause, then Kodi began to sing, “A Song for You.” The judges and crowd were mesmerized, and I cried for both the struggle and the victory as the young man born with “differences” sang his heart out to thunderous applause. The judges and audience were also crying as he was given the coveted Golden Buzzer. I kept thinking, so well deserved, and likely so rare he would be celebrated, like this. (Spoiler…he went on to WIN that season, changing the minds and hearts of millions related to ability and talent. Videos from his performances are reported to be the “most watched in AGT history.” He plays nightly in Vegas. For a boy who could “barely string together words,” this is the underdog story…)

I am drawn to the underdog/ success stories in everything from March Madness to movies to real life; the grit, perseverance and the beauty wrapped up together. As I have spent time writing this piece and thinking through what it is that I want to convey, a realization hit me: as much as I love the image of conquering big battles and hard-fought victories, there is something else that I am drawn to as well. One of my favorite words is redeemed. Dictionary.com defines it this way: an act of redeeming or atoning for a fault or mistake, or the state of being redeemed. deliverance; rescue.

Redemption and having audacious hope is what I love most about the God of Heaven, Jesus and this story – perseverance, passion, rescue and love for all, including all of us underdogs. It is a redemption story like none other, both victory and redemption we absolutely cannot wrap our minds around. And this is the truth that always brings me to tears. I am undone at the reality that Jesus died for me, (for all of us) when he did not have to, not for a second. God himself says that the last here on earth will be first in heaven. I can’t even fathom the beauty in that…or the fact that though I deserve, “underdog status,” God promises the biggest victory.

Until then, I don’t want to stop crying the happy tears, cheering with my whole heart and yearning for redemption of all things. I never want to lose the awe in all things. I want to celebrate movement, trying and trying again. I want to feel hope, wonder and take nothing for granted. And I always want to be thankful to the one whose heart, sacrifice and love is so much more than I could ever imagine. May we love well, those who feel unlovable, may we see those who feel invisible and may we love extravagantly like you do, Jesus, always.

Both/And

Psalm 13

Sometimes, it is good to howl….

/4 Comments/in /by

(Oh my heart…be brave my soul.)

“I can feel something welling up, deep in the pit of my stomach, a clenching I don’t have a name for. I have spent too many days, NOT caring for myself, AGAIN. Between family needs, schedules and even the joy, I have yet again, put my own needs on the back burner. As the days blur together, I can feel something building up inside me, something between anger, exhaustion and sheer overwhelming emptiness….”

“I don’t know the point in saying, “I am angry. Of course I am angry! It is endless. But it won’t change…I need to just get over it. Except, I can’t stop thinking about it, even when I say to myself, I am over it. I don’t understand it….”

“I will never be able to stop crying if I let myself start, it is too big, too painful. I will never stop. I just need to keep busy, keep going and keep working.”

“It was such a long time ago, it doesn’t matter anymore, right? I thought that if I just ignored the pain of what happened to me, I would forget. But I haven’t, I can’t. still, this many years later, when I close my eyes I can see and feel it all just like it is happening right now. I don’t know what to do anymore…..”

These sentiments are just a tiny glimpse into the daily life of brave clients…if these walls could speak, there is so much more.

Oh my heart….be brave my soul.

In this career I hold dear…(and maybe not just my career, but this very life), God has let me witness both so much tragedy and so much profound beauty. I don’t think I can truly describe it adequately.

Professionally, It came first in the form of children at my first internship when I supervised visitation between kids who had been removed from their parents care for a multitude of reasons. Even when the reasons for removal seemed the most legitimate, the kids AND the parents were doing their brave best in the most heart-wrenching situations.

Sometimes, all we can do is howl….

When I got my first job out of my undergrad, I began working with teens in a grassroots relational ministry. I was young, idealistic and introduced to the joy and heartache of life in ministry, earning the right to be heard while supporting teens and families in about every possible scenario over the course of 7 years. Standing with teens at a visitation of one of their beloved friends as they tearfully asked me, “what does she look like in that casket?” The gleaming dark wood casket was closed and raised up on the the opposite end of the funeral home. The kids moved slowly together, a dazed look, shock and pain raw, unable to wrap their minds around the sudden, tragic loss they were instantly thrust into.

Sometimes, you can’t do anything but howl…

I began my MSW program and came to understand the concept of family systems differently than ever before. I lost a dear friend one week after my program began and over the next year, learned what grief truly was. It was one of the hardest, growth years of my life. The the next year, after a lot of soul searching, prayer and the uncomfortable feeling of the right thing not always being the easiest thing, I began an internship at Hospice. I was changed in every single way, the holiness and tenderness of this calling – from my supervisor who taught me about peace and hope through her life, how to care for clients through her expertise and authenticity and boundaries through her intentional approach to nearly everything.

An unforgettable client taught us all about living while she was dying, gave us unique and needed perspective as we were stunned, huddling around TVs on my first day there, 9/11/2001. She sat on her small deck that morning, overlooking a pond, waiting for the temperature to rise enough to release the butterflies she had watched over from being caterpillars to beautiful, painted ladies. I will never forget her calm demeanor talking about war, global events and life experiences she’d lived through. She was sad, but not stunned as we watched the Twin Towers fall. She described “other, difficult things, saying, this too, shall pass.” Somehow, I believed her, even on this day.

Oh, my heart…be brave my soul.

I began my second internship at a counseling center, learning about resistance, court-mandated clients and how to let clients own their own problems and outcomes. My heart broke, while sitting face to face with a parent whose child had been removed after the child was hospitalized with a broken arm. The parent was “sure I haven’t done anything wrong.” I was distraught, faced with providing positive, unconditional regard and feeling this childs pain. I was also pregnant with my first child.

I sat across from many during those 6 years, learning as much in the pain as I did in the growth and change. I became a clinician, who has still, so much to learn. I learned to trust myself more, that many things will not be fixed or even made better. Sometimes, all I could do was witness a client’s painful truth and the difficulty it requires to exact lasting change. A boy who’d been in countless foster homes had such a difficult time coming, being vulnerable. Week after week, I asked my supervisor “how to help him.” She reminded me that often counseling takes a long time, which could mean years and most likely, I would not be the one to see it. She gave me the analogy of how one therapist might plant seeds, another watering the same seeds and another, seeing a flower bloom. At the time, I really wanted to be that person to reach my client (I wasn’t), but I have held that analogy close for many years.

I vacillated while becoming a mom of 3, between Hospice work and agency counseling. I met a widowed parent raising multiple teens who had “hoped it would all go away after the funeral.” Two years later, it still hadn’t and we needed to go back before going forward. We went through.

Another parent, in a moment, had to navigate shock, selflessness and courage while shifting very quickly into complex, traumatic grief and loss.

Sometimes, all we can do is howl….

In my life, outside of my career, I experience inspiration through everyone I meet…A young boy named Bill whose smile lit up a room; how he bravely fought a brutal, debilitating disease and his family showed me the meaning of grace in their care for him. Em, allowed me into some of her most vulnerable days and thoughts, taught me that CP was NOT all there was to me and the meaning of “rising above.” Les, who has for over 25 years inspired me by being the very definition of tenacity, fearlessness, loyalty and love. She and her spirited friend, Monica taught me sacrifice and the horror of gun violence in front of my eyes – so much worse than it seems in the movies. Mason and his beloved family, lesson after lesson in beauty, sacrifice and the love of Jesus. J and J, P and T who live out the redemption of dreams deferred and God’s sovereignty unfolding. My dear friend Shelly who teaches me more about the sacrifice of motherhood than I can comprehend. This list is not even the beginning…and there are so many, too many to list.

oh my heart…

In all the journeys, the pain, the beautiful and the in-between, I’ve learned this: the only way through, is through.

We used to read Going on a Bear Hunt to our kids, at least 55 times a day when they were little, until all 5 of us had it memorized.

“You can’t go over it…you can’t go under it, you have to go THROUGH it!” We would yell that refrain! It became a metaphor for both hard things in our family and in my clinical work. I even bought a small board book of Helen Oxenbury’s version and set it on the table for clients. It never failed to evoke an moment of understanding or even tears sometimes as the message became real.

Be brave my soul….

Psalm 13 (my very favorite and an amazing biblical both/and) says:

1 How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
    How long will you hide your face from me?
2 How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
    and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
    How long will my enemy triumph over me?

3 Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
    Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death,
4 and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,”
    and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

5 But I trust in your unfailing love;
    my heart rejoices in your salvation.
6 I will sing the Lord’s praise,
    for he has been good to me.

Both the heartache and the praise, fear and trust. Yes, Lord God, be in, both, with and for us. Loss and hope, agony and trying to find something akin to joy. This is real and true, the purpose in the calling, at least for me. As I teach it in my work, learn it for myself and pray for the grace and mercy we all need, I also know this: holding the both/and is the truest path to peace I have ever come to. Because I know God understands AND loves me in both.

May we take care of ourselves: take a walk, call mom (or dad,) attend a class and learn new skills. Seek counseling. Breathe deep, smell the flowers, blow out the candles. Pray or meditate. Walk slowly, speak only kind words to ourselves. Lean into our people, the ones who know and love the authentic versions of us. And may we allow ourselves to go through.

“Crying releases stress hormones, swearing increases pain tolerance. Anger motivates us to solve problems. Silence and smiles aren’t the only way to respond to pain. Sometimes its good to howl.” Anonymous

I often close sessions with “be kind to yourself” and full disclosure, how my own therapist closes with me. Sometimes, I add this – howl if you need to, cry, and rest. Most often, those are the very paths that lead to the best parts of healing.

Both/And

Psalm 13


Becoming 50

/1 Comment/in /by

Tomorrow is a big birthday.

You know how you hear, “age 50” advice throughout your life? Some is well-meaning and sage, some definitely is NOT. Everything from, “tomorrow, it’s all over, Stacy. Your body starts to break down, you feel 80 from the minute you turn 50,” to “enjoy every moment, it all goes fast.” I think we all have pre-conceived ideas about certain numbers, birthdays and aging…at least that is what I hear in my office and in my relationships.

What I FEEL, strangely, is a bit excited and READY.

I have thought about this birthday for months, waiting for dread and “old” to descend upon me. Sitting here 1 day before the this birthday and all I feel is profoundly grateful. I am ever in wonder about my story, the way and why God chose this path for me: born early, the family I have, the experiences and heartaches. My career, beliefs and interests: the things that make up WHO I am. How God knows my love and I, these beautiful kids we have the privilege of raising, the stories I get to hear, the wonder I am allowed to experience.

It is not lost on me, the lives I interact with, the losses and pain shared with me, that I should not, (WILL not) take a moment for granted. I am humbled by the legacy of faith my parents have shown and that my greatest gift, EVER, is Jesus.

I am excited, standing on the edge of the next 50…how will our love story continue? What will the kids paths look like? How will I see Jesus and stay in wonder of it all? What I am going to do next, professionally and personally?

And yes, my fear of how my body will age with CP is real. But, I refuse to live in that fear. That used to be lens in which I saw most things. It is truly the hardest place to live. But acknowledging it is ok, reminding myself it will be ok, everything will unfold as it should, as a dear friend reminds me often.

My fear for our world and people is real also, as I look to my next 50. All I can do is speak and advocate for truth, kindness, love and hope, knowing that GOD IS SOVEREIGN and so good.

I remember watching Oprah, the day she turned 60, I think. She talked about all the negativity surrounding birthdays and something she said has stuck with me. “Consider birthdays a time to look back on your blessings of the year, celebrate those. Think about the people who’ve impacted you and be grateful for that, instead of the dreaded, I am another year OLDER.” This is most definitely a paraphrase, but the idea of a hopeful remembrance and celebrating who and how we are has stayed with me for sure.

To that end, I am so very thankful for this space, truly a gift to write and hear your feedback. I believe God gives us all stories to tell. How will you tell yours?

I am grateful for clients who bravely share who they are with me, and the ability provide a space that is safe, sacred and hopeful.

I am grateful for health, for continued awareness and light surrounding ALL of our differences in 2023 and pray that it continues, wider, deeper and kinder.

I am in awe of friends and family God has placed on this journey with and for me: a new church and wonder each time we attend, family who loves like no one else, the Word that makes me strive to be closer to The Lord each time I open it. Friends who know me authentically, love me still and are breathing examples of grace.

I am thankful for biking, movement and the daily understanding of how physical and emotional health really do heal and make way for peace and contentment.

For memories, and those who I will hold again in heaven and how they’ve taught me so much. You are loved always. Thanks Gram for all the “house cakes” on my birthday.

My goal is to hold this last 50 tenderly and enter the next 50 bravely; becoming less about me and more like my savior. I want to worry less, care more; Waste less, give and love extravagantly.

I know this sounds like a “Mr. Rogers ideal” and truthfully, it probably is. I know there is also so much pain for many, around birthdays and many other days. Praying love and hope over all. For me, this is the both/and – both my hope and gratitude going forward AND the knowing it is not always that easy.

Here’s to cake, ice cream, those we love, gifts of time, connection, sunshine (and a good bike ride) and always kindness and love for others and ourselves. EVERY day, not just on birthdays.

“Hey John, you need one of those!”

/0 Comments/in /by

If you know me or have followed my social media for more than this month, my love and joy in riding my bike is evident. I always relish the freedom my bike gives me, the effort of pushing my overly active muscles and the wonder of feeling my body accomplish this thing I ask it to, just in different ways than someone without CP.

There are (nearly) always comments when I ride, however and it is a complicated thing to grapple with…

My journey with biking has been a long one, one of watching, trying, longing, trying again and finally, arriving…Let me start somewhere near my beginning. I was born with cerebral palsy when my parents and sister lived in New Jersey. By God’s providence, I was born in 1 of the 2 parts of the US that had a neo-natal intensive care unit (NICU) at that time. Had it not been so, I truly believe I would not have survived my early birth, breathing challenges and all the growth that had to occur outside of the womb instead of those 7 more weeks within. I know I keep writing, “that is another story for another post”, but in many ways, this is. In time, I hope to write more of my story. This format feels right to me for snippets, essays and in my mind, a focused reason behind each post. That story? Well, that one could be novel of its’ very own….

Suffice it to say for this moment, that I was extremely blessed to be born where I was in the world, if not when (7 weeks premature). With all the both and in the world, I KNOW God is in it, through it and in him, all the reasons hold together. (And, I can’t wait to curl up in a big cozy chair with the BEST cup of tea and hear the reasons when I get to heaven. I don’t really know if it will matter at that point, but I DO envision his hug to end end all hugs and my big sigh of relief at his telling and understanding of ALL that it has been.) See, that by itself could be a novel!

Even though I know God holds it all together does NOT mean that growing up with CP, making sense and facing my own challenges WITH IT are easy. In fact, CP has been and will continue to be, my greatest teacher of Both/And. It is the greatest “normalizer,” (if that is even a word?) I will ever know, of having so many feelings at the EXACT same time….

You see, I don’t think I knew or felt different than anyone in my youth. I think it just WAS for me. I pranced on my toes for years, because my hamstrings and heel chords were so tight that was all I could do. But very young, my dad worked with me a lot to find my own walk and I think once I did meet those “normal milestones” (a bit later than the average person,) I think I took off. And my particular diagnosis was “moderate.”

I don’t know the day that it changed for me, the reality of different, (and the shame that came with that particular realization), but I can tell you I remember moments and feelings in my body.

We lived out in the country when I was little, on a dirt road, right next door to a pig and blueberry farm. Our ranch home sat back far from the road, up a long driveway and just past the pond my parents had put in. It was “better than a swimming pool,” our place for splashing, catching tadpoles, playing on innertubes and for my brother, catching fish. One day we even looked out the front window and saw one of the massive pigs from next door, relaxing and resting in the shallow water! Her owner had to dangle one of her bleating babies while as he sat, legs swinging from the back of his pickup truck to get her get out of the soothing water and hot sun. Slowly the driver drove while the owner called to the pig, baby crying, until they disappeared in a cloud of dust up the drive to the house next door. It was a sight to behold…

I swam, ran, played in the woods with the neighborhood friends. Still, as I grew, I had difficulty keeping up with my younger brother and his friends playing capture the flag, and envious of my sister and the other neighbor kids who could take off down our winding driveway in the woods on their bikes. I saw speed, freedom and fun as they hopped on effortlessly, yelled to one another and gathered speed. I think my mind compared it to flying!

I begged my dad to teach me. Begged! And bless him. We tried, and tried and tried. I would fall, cry, become afraid and then eventually try again. But I think after awhile, we both knew that this was one of those things impacted by CP that I or he could not will away. I was crushed and I think for the first time in my life, realized I was disabled and had some limitations.

That sting did not disappear. In fact, I think it festered. I had many surgeries, changing my bone structure so that I had the best possible outcome for mobility with my particular range of CP. It is SO different for each one of us, with similarities perhaps, but each case, (1 in 350 people) looks different than another.

I dreamed of MOVING this body – whether is was ice skating on our pond, swimming, running, later roller blading and yes, still biking. I felt both trapped within a body that felt chained and was so hard to explain and I felt “bad for not having CP worse,” as though I should only be thankful that I could walk, talk and function as well as I could, almost like survivor’s guilt only “moderate CP guilt.”

A few days before Christmas, mid-seventh grade, my parents rented one of my favorite movies from Blockbuster (Savanah Smiles.) I loved movies and this particular one was one I had loved going to see with my Gram in the theaters. I disappeared to our basement to watch it and was in my own little heaven. Suddenly, I heard my parents calling me upstairs. I was ornery to tell the truth. I climbed the stairs and then realized they were calling from outside in December. I am certain I became a bit more than ornery, but went anyway. As I opened the front door, I could not believe my eyes. Sitting on our porch was an bright blue, oversized tricycle with a big white basket in the back!

You might be thinking, really, in 7th grade? And I hear you… I don’t think it occurred to me to be embarrassed about a trike. I think the freedom (and flying) was first and foremost in my mind. I will never forget that beautiful thoughtful gift from my mom and dad, or the forethought they had about adaptation. My parents even got permission for me to ride that bike in the school hallways of my Jr. High that winter. Only once was I going so fast that I hit a corner and got my beautiful bike on two wheels and almost tipped. I learned that lesson, quick!

I rode that bike until I began to drive, literally FLYING. When we moved to Holland and our house was a stone’s throw from Lake Michigan, I was there nearly every day in the summer. It was joyous. But as I hit about 11th grade, someone yelled, “why you riding your grandma’s bike?” and it was like hitting a brick wall. Shame and pain took the joy right out of the bike and I retreated. I gave the excuses of driving, but I knew it was the mean comment in the middle of heavy beach traffic.

Years later, in my 20’s, my roommate’s parents came for a visit from across the state. They’d discovered “banana bikes” for rent by the beach. Jo (roommate) and Don(her dad) got talking about my challenges with bike riding, Holland’s beautiful bike paths and “how to get Stacy on a bike!” Don ended up finding one for sale and driving to get it for me. Again, the most meaningful gift! I am forever grateful. It sat low and had 3 wheels (almost resembling a Hot Wheels, remember those?) with a banana yellow mesh seat. I rode it for the next few years until it’s wheels almost fell off.

Then a few years into marriage, my husband and I wandered into a nearby bike store. There, gleaming in the window, was a long Sunseeker recumbent bike, fancy and new. I had never heard of such a thing! We talked for a long time about it and again, the truth? It was WAY out of our price range…and my husband got it for our anniversary anyway. It was a gift of being seen and heard, after hearing my longing about bikes for YEARS. He even outfitted it to pull a Burley when we had our daughter, then our son.

And, if I am honest AGAIN, I became complacent. It was a lot to get the kids tucked in the Burley, wiggle their helmets on, get the bike hooked up and THEN go for a ride… I was a young working mom and it was a lot to get up and go. It is amazing to me as I look back, how the desire for something was so big to me and then, once I had the means to go, it was easy to push it away “til tomorrow, then tomorrow and many after that,” because I was tired or it was too much effort.

Fast forward a few more years. My son began working at a local bike shop, learning from the best how bikes function, what is most helpful for each of us, in a unique situation. We strolled in and found a shorter, zippier recumbent and I was instantly smitten. That bike took us all on a journey of discovery, growth, health and connection in so many ways. I had a goal of riding 365 days the next year – the rides we all took! It was, FREEDOM personified. There is so much more to say, feel free to ask or comment! I love to talk bikes and adaptation…

As great of a start it provided, I quickly craved more power than my zippy blue bike was able to provide.

I’ve now upgraded twice, first to a Fat Tad (a present for my birthday, a shiny red recumbent with fat tires and more attitude!)

This past spring, after some wise conversations about the mechanics of my rides, I upgraded again, to a Fat Tad with pedal assistance. This provides a more consistent pace, the ability to cross streets, ride rough terrain and increase the effectiveness of my workouts. Each upgrade has provided a new truth in my heart: I AM able, capable and AN ATHLETE.

And…I at times have experienced some downright mean or nasty statements while biking.

It is not uncommon on the ride to hear, “Hey, honey, that’s the bike we need to get for your mom!” or “You better get some lights on there if you want to stay alive!” There are other variations of the same theme.

Last week, as I excited Windmill Island, a man was walking in, saw me and yelled a few cars down, ” Hey John, you need one of those!” He had slowed down, staring a bit at both me and my bike.

I slowed, knowing I was now the object of “show and tell.” This happens often and typically, I try SO hard to see these interactions as a chance to educate about CP, how someone could feel in this situation. Truly, I do…and sometimes I am just too tired to educate and listen.

I rolled near John, who walked slowly over to me, as quick as his body would let him and began looking my bike over. I’ve heard it said that for those who use wheelchairs, the chair actually feels like an extension of their personhood and it is very invasive when someone is the bubble of the chair AND the person. I can relate! My bike represents my personhood and freedom.

Person A proceeded to discuss how this would be a perfect bike for John and the assumptions ensued. I need to pause and explain my emotional response…typically, my husband will say, that I become defensive related to people responding with, “that looks like fun,” or the ever-present insinuation that an elderly person would have a much easier time on a recumbent like mine than on a standard two wheel bike. Occasionally, my husband will whisper something irreverent under his breath at the third (or seventeenth) comment, just to shock and humor me.

The truth is, my bike is magic, incredibly life-giving AND is damn hard work. All your momentum must come from your legs and core, without the leverage to stand up on the hills. It is not, a quick and easy ride. It would be very, difficult for anyone to just “hop on and have fun!”

I think my “frustration” in those moments, is that I want to be truthful and advocating and I never l want to assume about anyone’s experience. My experience with my bike has been interesting in terms of commentary and assumption. From, “you look very awkward riding that bike,” to “that looks like so much fun,” to “that is so badass,” to “oh, look at you, laying down on the job!” there are so many reactions. The generous assumption is that most people don’t intend to be insulting – most! Some do… and…the comments can be. I absolutely experience both.

How often do we experience that in other parts of life, that someone comments and our filter responds before our head and heart remind us to “assume the best about people around us?” It is SO hard to do….so hard. One of my favorite anonymous quotes says, “be kind for everyone is fighting some kind of battle.” I pray that today, you encounter kindness from yourself and from others. I pray that we can approach one another with the generous assumption that we are ALL trying our very best. And I pray that you experience freedom, awe and wonder in a way that only can be described as the presence of the Holy Spirt: sailing on a boat, swaying in a hammock hammock, sitting near the water, a hard run, riding horseback or like me, in a way that is different than others, but is your own passion and joy. I will be on my bike, because God is good to me….

Family…

/2 Comments/in /by

We are, in our family of 5, spinning lately between our kids spring sports and events, church events, commitments to friends and family. These are all things we love, and the pace has just amped up! There is a metronome in the back of my mind, slowly ticking as we edge toward summer. But not just, “another summer,” but the last summer before my daughter graduates from high school… (Can you hear the excitement, overwhelm and perhaps a little shock in these words of mine?)

I’ve also been thinking about the many facets of family, even as I try to keep up with our schedule: in my counseling practice, the lives of friends and our family, as our daughter stands on the brink of college decisions and all that lies ahead.

During counseling sessions throughout the week, I can safely say that some of the struggles of family show up in some way, each and every session: beautiful, haunting, wounded, and abusive; broken, connected, healthy and hopeful. The constellations of family have changed in a multitude of amazing ways over the course of my career, and yet, the themes seem to remain the same: the hope to belong, be accepted and loved unconditionally. And truly, wanting our families to provide these values to each other in ALL the ways.

As we grow, I believe we also all have the hope and desire to provide these same values to families of our own. Some may call me idealistic, but my experience and my belief in the inherent good that God created us with, says that every parent WANTS DESPERATELY to provide to and receive love from every child ever born. And sadly, it is not always there or possible in some family situations….

If we turn on the news, drive down the road, scroll through social media, listen to kids after school, overhear conversation at work or perhaps all of the above, we know there is an excruciating amount of pain in families around the world at this very moment. Whether it is financial hardship, emotional instability, food insecurity, physical or sexual abuse or a myriad of other reasons, individuals ARE struggling, hurting, while also yearning for love and acceptance. While those may be some of the extremes, there are layers of pain, levels of longing for all of us, for connection with family.

Not only do I hear from the brave clients who tell me, but I can also tell from the increasing numbers of individuals searching for meaning, for the moments of connection and even perfection in families of our own….

I am an AVID Disney fan, have loved Mickey since our first family trip many, many years ago. A few years ago, my husband and I were ready to take our kids to the “happiest place on earth.” This was the very first trip for us and our babes, then 8, 6 and 3. Enough people had warned us to not “buy into the hype,” so we tried to lower our expectations. We knew there would be tantrums, possible tears instead of delight upon seeing Mickey and Minnie, sore feet and tired legs, arguments about souvenirs and much more. We hoped for beautiful memories, moments of pure delight and family fun. There were absolutely all of this and then some on that first trip. Unforgettable memories, even the hard ones.

A particular memory wasn’t really even about our family, but has stuck with me for many reasons. One morning as we hurried to get a spot for our son in the “Jedi Training Academy.” We hadn’t gotten up before dawn, (suggested if we REALLY wanted a spot for him,) but we did go to The Star Wars part of the park, first thing. We asked the cast member standing near us and were told the “Academy was full.” We explained this to our son, who was disappointed, but still happy to be at Disney. Just then, we heard a dad behind us screaming at the cast member we had just talked to. He yelled and belittled, “you are going to ruin the trip for our son, the trip that we saved for over a year to make happen!”

My husband leaned over, shaking his head and whispered in my ear, “the happiest place on earth…” The irony was glaring as we stood among parents and kids. I felt simultaneously so sad and tremendous pity for both the cast member, the family involved and anger at the way this dad had acted. The thought struck me even then, how families were banking on these experiences to find that elusive “family joy,” for themselves and their kids.

It is a billion dollar per year industry that Disney has mastered. The costs are currently rising and analysts continue to discuss how “it doesn’t really change because people continue to pay for it.” Why? Because the Disney Imagineers and marketing division tap flawlessly into that root of hope in all of us: the desire for connection, memories, joy and family.

There are more than Disney, however, who know that pathway. It is written on literal signs in many gift shops, quotes about family, wall art and jewelry; Hallmark movies with plot-lines of love, family and the proverbial happy ending. I AM NOT criticizing ANY of those, not even a little. I have simply talked with many people about the the many ways humans cope with the longing we all feel to have meaningful connection with family.

I am finding myself wrestling with that very connection while engaging in this next stage with our daughter. I know her drivers’ license says she is nearly an adult in the last days of her junior year in high school. But when I look at her, I sometimes remember her childhood before I see her as an adult. We go on college visits, have many discussions about her future. And my mama heart is at the same time squeezed with pain that we’ve somehow arrived HERE, where she goes forward without me in her day to day. AND, I am so very proud and excited for and WITH her. BOTH. AND…I want desperately to support, stand beside her in her next chapter, and, I want to hold her tight and never let go. We have spent years, protecting, knowing, caring, teaching, giving, crying and loving our kids completely then, in a blink, we are faced with finding a way to release them…

It is both foreign to me and if I am honest, a bit unfathomable, and, it is also healthy, normal and right. I know both inside my mind and my heart, truly. I am just really not sure HOW to do it, for her or me….I also know it will all unfold as it should, somehow…

These are the truths about family that I’ve been pondering in these both/and days…

I am grieving with you if you have been abused or hurt in any way. Please don’t hesitate to seek help, find support and love for yourself. Your life, efforts and pain are not invisible to the God of Heaven. I cannot explain or even understand the life experiences on this Earth. There is so much I want to talk with my Jesus about, in his time. But in the meantime, I can only offer hope and the belief that everyone is important and deserving of love, connection and adoration. I pray that you are able to keep believing, trying and hoping.

Brene Brown writes, “We will practice courage in our family by showing up, letting ourselves be seen and honoring vulnerability. We will share our stories of struggles and strength. There will always be room in our home for both.”

However family is for you, I pray you are connected and brave in the beautiful and the hard, this side of Eden. I pray for the courage and authenticity, to grieve and cry with one another, to be real and seen, enjoy laughter and hope. I pray we can establish boundaries as needed, trust ourselves in the joy and the pain, and I pray that as life continues to change, in phases and seasons, that we can love like Jesus. I have hope in being real and calling out perfectionism (kindly) within ourselves. And I don’t want to miss a moment of all of it, the moments when I or they are at the end of ourselves, unable to use words, or the moments that feel almost perfect and nearly every moment in between. In the loving always and the letting go, the searching and the finding, without a doubt, God seeks, holds and calls you his own. He is love, light, belonging and so much hope. Family…the one we all seek and the one we need. 

Both…and

Psalm 13

Two golf carts…two very different experiences.

/0 Comments/in /by

(For my EGM)

Spending time with my darling daughter is like getting my cup filled up over and over when it has been significantly hard to find a drink for weeks. 

One of our favorite activities together is to go to local craft fairs. We love the creative endeavors, finding so many ideas for her endlessly crafty brain and for me, just absorbing every word she says. We talk, shop, laugh, see things that catch our eyes or give meaning to us both. We notice, connect and sometimes are moved deeply just in our wanderings. 

It is a daunting and humbling thing to be a mama of one who is on the cusp of spreading her own wings… she is closer to adulthood than she isn’t, she is becoming so much of her own and it is all too easy to wonder if I have done enough, taught her enough, parented well enough or many other “have I enough‘s.” 

I have done so much of my work over the course of her life, both intentionally and unintentionally. When you’re a therapist it’s always a good practice to continue to stay in touch with a therapist of your own. More often, there are conversations about parenting wrapped up in conversations about how I provide therapy, my fears and growth; the regular ebb and flow of doing my emotional and spiritual work. But even with the knowledge that I have done and will continue to do my own work as she grows, it is still alarmingly easy to fall back into those, “ I wonders.”

I’m completely amazed that my girl’s love language is quality time with me. I am beyond blessed in the relationship I have with her, but today I am simply humbled in the fact that who she is becoming is more and more like Jesus.

Upon arriving at the craft show, she rolled down her window and asked where the handicapped accessible parking lot was. We were instructed to go a different direction than the designated lot because it was full. She deftly drove and parked which by itself is still unbelievable to me. I swear she’s a three-year-old behind the wheel of a car. 

As always, she came around the side of the car to hold my hand while we walk. I don’t always need that, but I’ll tell you it’s the most comforting thing, her holding my hand; especially when the ground is uneven, there is changing terrain or pavement. She regularly tells me that she WANTS to hold my hand; it’s not a necessity but at this point in my life, I actually believe her. 

We walk, my hand tucked through her elbow and my heart is light. I’m comfortable in my own skin, which she IS watching. We are giggling a bit and I can sense a motorized vehicle behind me, slowing down. I look to my left and assume that a nice staff member has seen us and is going to offer us a ride to the front of the craft show in his golf cart. Instead, a gentleman in a STAFF shirt rather gruffly leans over to us and says “Ladies, that is not where customers are supposed to park. I can see you’re kind of slow so it’s OK, but normally you need to park in a different area.” 

I blink, my heart racing. He had just summed up my identity in a snap judgement. He didn’t say “I can see you walking slow,” but that I WAS SLOW. …my brain had often filled in the rest- that slow was bad, that I WAS BAD. Years of experience, disdainful looks, pity and assumptions had wrongly confirmed it. That same feeling coursed through my muscles, making them all fire.

I can feel my daughter’s body also tense beside me… and before I can respond, she is the one saying, “when we pulled in, we asked the parking attendant where to park and she directed us over here because the handicapped lot was full.” Defending our parking spot AND her mama.  

“We’ll, I don’t know about that. I mean, I would beat you in a race but next time park in the other spot.” He drove off and I stood there holding onto her, dumbfounded. 

In my lifetime I have often been confronted with people’s ignorance and lack of awareness but it really never gets easier. Your skin gets harder, you learn some quick comebacks, but the affects still hurt every time.  This particular time completely caught me off guard. 

Before we go one step further, I have heard so many times, “who cares what he thinks,” and it is right- who DOES care?

WE ALL DO. We ALL CARE more about the insults and criticism than we’re able to accept affirmation and love. If we’re honest…

Emotional work does pay off. I took a few deep breaths, was as kind to my reacting muscles as I could possibly be and attempted to find pity for golf-cart man.

Daughter handled her frustration and own anxiety by reassuring me. “We can leave if you want.” She whispered, hugging me. Trying to swallow around the lump in my throat and a few tears caught in my ducts, I needed another second to breathe.  In my adult self, but not my previously bullied kid self, he had called out my biggest insecurity and insulted me when I least expected it.

I reassured her I would be OK; I just wasn’t quite yet. There would’ve been piles of shame in the past and believe me, that voice was whispering, but a bigger yell was happening inside me, that this was unjust, and so very sad that someone would not only think this way but say it out loud to another person in the year 2022. 

I hugged her and reminded her it wasn’t her job to take care of me, but thank you. It meant the world, her love. I didn’t even reprimand her when she ever-so-subtly shook her middle finger at his back.

“Oh Kevin, thank you so much for all the help, you are so kind.” We were collecting ourselves and heard “golf-cart man” being praised by another customer. A bit of insult to injury.

We walked on and had a really good time looking in the craft show. Rich fall colors, scents from candles and food trucks, eye-catching artwork and sparkling jewelry.  Though we were initially subdued, we began to shake the interaction off and return to “us.”  Conversation included processing how “golf-cart man” and his comments felt for both of us, how others might feel and what would lead someone to say something so blatant and rude. We talked about her first few days of school, her favorite social media accounts and her upcoming year.  We vacillated between the sad, mad, silly and fun. And a few swear words. 

We bought sweet treasures for friends, a few keepsakes of our own and gorged ourselves on iced tea and strawberry shortcake mini donuts from a fantastic food truck. I loved listening to her dreaming her dreams, future plans, the inspiration she found for crafts she wanted to make and how God holds her future in his hands. I cherished her hold on my arm and every once in a while whispering, “I’m sorry he was such a jerk, Mama.“

We left and before I knew it, she was again rolling her window down and trying to explain to event organizers what had happened and caring for her mama. The best part was watching her use her voice and standing up for what she believed in. (Passionately calling golf-cart man an asshole.) I was just the lucky recipient of her strength. Even though this man’s words hurt us both, we hurt for others who he might speak to in the same way and honestly, we were just plain pissed off. 

But I also experienced the beauty and the pride of my daughter’s awareness, her choices to use her voice, her heart and knowing that SHE changes the world for good. She loves like Jesus; she has a heart like Jesus and I am in awe of her trust – in both herself and her Savior.

I don’t know that I will ever feel confident that I have done right by her completely. Honesty again? Every parent this side of heaven wonders, I think. But today in the middle of some glaring ignorance I know that I am enough, I have enough and God is more than enough to take care of all of HER needs as well. Amazing how a craft show can give you things so good (and some hard) that has nothing to with crafts.

As the day ended, we came across a vendor who created lovely jewelry as part of a fundraiser for people in Haiti. Ella bought a Haitian coin with the words “Grace Wins “and me, a bracelet with the words ‘rise.”

Messages and reminders for today and those to come.  

Six months AFTER that day with Kevin, (golf cart man) I still think about that event sometimes….

I attend countless events for our kids and my brain is ultra-aware of people around me.

I have become accustomed to looks or experiences when I must advocate or explain my disability to others to get the help I need. I also am surrounded by lots of friends, family and our “swim family,” (the other parents we sit and cheer with, week after week, sport after sport,) who are spot on: reaching for my hand, helping me down the steps, bleachers, or many other situations. I am profoundly grateful.

As often as there is someone who is hurtful or unaware, there are many more in my corner….

Last Thursday was one of those days….

My love and I traveled about an hour to our son’s away baseball game, as usual. It had been a long week, my muscles still a bit off following lots of temperature changes, long days with clients (sitting too much) and many days in a row of events for the kids. No complaints, just this season we are in.

My husband parked the car and we could not even really see the baseball field clearly. It was and felt so far away, especially with my current state of mobility.

I could feel my heart begin to race, thinking about walking out that far. Still, there wasn’t really another option. I got out of the car, begin to pull my coat on as the chill was already in the air.

Just then, a man drove a bit past our parked car in a John Deere Gator. The very fleeting thought was, “oh, man, I wish we could hop a ride!”

Still, I continued pulling myself together to both walk a long way AND sit outside in the cold for a long baseball game.

I looked over again, sensing that the man on the Gator was still there…

“Hi there, would you like a ride? You’ll have to sit in the back…” He looked from me to my husband.

I blinked and my husband quickly answered, “I don’t mind sitting in the back, thank you!” We tried to grab our stuff quickly and though my muscles fired from being on the spot, I climbed up in the seat next to him. He had leather looking skin from years in the sun, a deep gravelly voice and the smell of cigarette smoke clung to him like a cloud. And…his kindness meant the world as he accelerated across the grass, gravel and field toward the immaculate high school baseball diamond.

 I asked his name, (Terry) and he explained that he worked at this particular school taking care of the various sport venues. I praised his efforts, thanked him again and had a lump in my throat as he pulled the Gator to a stop at the ball diamond where my son’s team and the home team were already beginning play. He could not have known how helpful he was, what it meant to me or how grateful I was.

As we sat watching the game in a truly stunning stadium, I felt the very love of God in Terry’s kind gesture. And as the game went on, I could also feel my anxiety building as I thought to getting back to our car. I tried hard to push my worry to the back of my head, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t nag at me as the game wore on.

Suddenly, the game was over and my husband and I again began packing our chairs, gathering our belongings. I was resigned to walking back, made a wise crack to my husband about getting back to the car at midnight to ease my own anxiety.

Another baseball parent we know well came and hugged us, then looked over.

“Stace, I think your chauffeur is here, looking for you.” We followed her eyes and there was Terry, pointing right at me.

My heart pounded for just a second at being cared for and seen. The negative stuff happens often enough that you just don’t expect THIS kind of kindness.

We quickly made our way to Terry and he smiled at me as he revved up the Gator. “Well, I was watching the game and I kind of kept track of you so that I could give you a ride back.” I swear, I could have shed tears…

”My wife has some issues with her knees, so I like to help whenever I can.” He told me as he pulled up by our vehicle. I was still a bit blown away. I thanked him again and in reality, might’ve hugged him if I thought I could get away with it. I didn’t, but instead climbed into our car with a ridiculous amount of gratitude and a sense of God’s timing and presence.

No disrespect to our kids’ team, but Terry and his kindness have been a big topic of discussion throughout the weekend. It was my husband who said, “crazy, huh? Two guys, two golf carts.”

These words hung with my heart, a lot of the weekend…both Kevin AND Terry.

It wasn’t lost on me that Terry’s giving attitude changed the sting of Kevin’s behavior as I thought about that event again, many months later…

Terry, if you happen to come across this, thank you for showing me Jesus in a person, driving a Gator. Please don’t stop helping, because it is so important. I loved that ride for a lot of reasons and your ball diamond is STUNNING. Your ball diamond and your heart….

 In a world where we all have the choice to be “Kevin or Terry,” may we all be like Terry…and say a few prayers for the Kevins. We all have that capacity, don’t we?

Thank goodness for grace, mercy and people like my girl and Terry. I am grateful to both.

“Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.”  Plato

Both…And

Psalm 13

The smell of coffee, Gram’s Oil of Olay and Tiffany Rose Gold: oh the memories I have…

/0 Comments/in /by

I walked in the door and couldn’t help but inhale deeply. The rich, deep, comforting smell of coffee both assaults and eases into every part of my olfactory system. The funny thing is? I don’t even like DRINKING coffee. But my body, heart and mind are instantly comforted with the smell…

Growing up, the coffee pot was always on at our house. I didn’t even think it then, it just was the smell as you entered our house. Similarly, my dad always had the coffee pot on in his physical therapy office and I remember my mom consistently wrinkling her nose about “how strong you make it!” when we stopped in to visit. I simultaneously connected the smell to home, my dad, hospitality (because somehow, when adults were together, coffee was ALWAYS offered) and also the taste being “too strong.”

In my young adult hood I was privileged to spend a lot of time in the home of my mentor with his family. They had three kids and both Rick and Mariann were instrumental in these hard to understand years in my first job (in ministry), both had counseling backgrounds and were very accepting and authentic; a tremendous comfort to me. And anytime I walked into THEIR house, was the smell of coffee.

It had a slightly different aroma than what I grew up (Perhaps Folgers versus a coffee house blend?) but was still, the smell of coffee. The smell had come to mean safety, care and just being heard. And still, the taste left me wrinkling my nose and sputtering. I am actually a tea kind of girl, but that is for another day, another post for sure.

In those early days of ministry, I spent so many afternoon and sometimes evening hours at a new (at the time, to our corner of Michigan) coffee shop called JP’s. I’m not quite sure how I landed there, to be honest, being that I was NOT a coffee drinker…I think it was effort to be the “cool adult” in youth ministry and JP’s was my inroad to the goal. I spent hours tucked in a booth, munching on bagels, tea (for me) and hearing intense, beautiful unforgettable stories in the lives of so many teens. I went home with the smell of JP’s coffee embedded in my clothes, all the way to my skin, their stories, tears, laughter growth embedded just as deeply in my heart and my prayers. The smell of coffee morphed again to mean ministry, prayer, hope and a sense of awe that I got to be the person to listen to every one of those amazing kids.

Do you have one of those smells? One that brings you back to a time or feeling the second it hits your nostrils? Our olfactory receptors—proteins in the nasal passages that bind to odors and relay a signal to the brain, are a big connection to both the good and the really difficult memories sometimes. For some dealing with trauma, it could be the smell of gasoline that brings back the difficult memories of a car accident or the smell of bleach and sterilizer at the vet’s office that brings back the death of a beloved pet. I have for a long time, helped people process both the good and the hard associated with smell.

My beloved Gram ALWAYS wore Oil of Olay – a blush pink bottle with an abstract logo of a very serene woman, sitting front and center on her bathroom counter. In searching for a description of the scent, the best I read was, “White floral scent with almond, wisteria, cinnamon.

Her house had it’s own distinct smell too (like everyone’s): the smell of baking, sunshine and HER. Somehow, her Oil of Olay was blended in there as well. When she died suddenly when I was 19, within a few days, I panicked about “not smelling her house again.” Even then, the connection to smell was so important to me. My mom gave me a small little bottle of her Oil of Olay and for the longest time, in my missing her, I would open the small worn out bottle whose label had all but worn off and feel her standing right next to me.

I have listened to countless stories of people who are making their way through difficult losses and while in a store, library or some other completely random spot, somehow catch a whiff of “their person.” I think it can be a comfort and a painful thing to be transported this way. And unexpected sometimes, I have normalized it probably 550 times throughout my career…

For me, I love also to attach a scent to good memories, much like my Gram’s lotion.

My daughter has a special affinity for Tiffany jewelry but last year, begged for Tiffany Rose Gold perfume. We wandered through Ulta and I can still see her bouncing with excitement as we waded through the perfume aisles and cloud of competing fragrances. She handed me the tester bottle and as I sprayed it on a small strip of paper, the scent was a little unworldly. The ingredients list is blackcurrant, blue rose and Ambrette seed. I could not tell you what any of those look like or smell like individually, but I can tell you that my daughter and I sniffed that paper all afternoon between giggles and shopping. The aroma became a memory of spending time with her.

I did buy it for her for Christmas, she wears it often and as she recently traveled abroad with school for Spring Break, she quietly left the bottle on my counter to find when we returned from the airport. I wore it nearly everyday while she was gone, a way to hold her close.

Now, before the bottle becomes “ours,” I gave hers back and ordered my own.

You may think, this is silly or even have a hard time understanding such a connection to scents. Maybe that is not how it is for you. But I think if we close our eyes and imagine a smell of comfort, I imagine an image, feeling, place or memory comes to mind….

In 1998 the Parent Trap (re-make) was released. There was a scene where one of the twins, Hallie who “traded places” with her sister, Annie, met her grandpa for the first time. Annie had described him down to the mints he kept in a pocket and the pipe tobacco that clung to his clothes. Hallie buried her face in grandpa’s sweater, hugged him and inhaled deeply.

“What are you doing?” Grandpa asked.

“Making a memory.” Replied Hallie , tears in her eyes.

Of all the ways our bodies hold all the things, trauma, joy, memories, pain and relief, the connection to scents is one of my favorites. From the smell of walking into the Magic Kingdom, to the memories of my babies newborn “smell,” the way roses remind me of our wedding day or my mama’s lemon meringue pie, I am so thankful of the simple ways God allows us to remember…

Both…and

Psalm 13


Anger is easier than vulnerable…

/0 Comments/in /by

After a week full and by full, I mean 11 sports events for my two oldest kids, my body is completely spent. My muscles have been tight and reactive, causing my back to tighten up and sending everything else into spasms as well. When I walk, I feel like these legs have become sticks, or steel rods, unbending and taunt. I long to be ” a normal mom,” attending my kids events with ease, simply walking up the bleachers, or across the the green, uneven grass. And, I am trying so hard to be kinder, honor and not be angry with this body. That has been my go to, to simply become furious with my body because of what it could not do.

How silly is that? Or maybe stupid? To blame and shame this body that has worked so hard, that has endured so much. This body that fights and shows up even when it is so hard. THIS body that God says he created, IN HIS IMAGE. I wonder if you do the same? If anger is just EASIER than care, acceptance or dare I say, love. Why is that? Why are we so hard on our very selves at the time when our very selves need even more care and encouragement.

Anger is a million times easier than vulnerable. And most of us are masters at getting our needs met, OR avoiding feeling at all out of fear of feeling too much… I have been asked many, many times both in my life and in my office, “what if I start crying and I can’t stop?” I usually talk about the fear of that and gently remind people that I have never had to sleep in my office because someone couldn’t stop crying. Not even once.

Kinder is letting the tears come; reaching for the person who will listen, even when it’s really vulnerable to do so. Fierce self compassion says, care about yourself the same way you would about your best friend. Show up for you rather than beating yourself up for having feelings at all. As hard as it is to be kinder, its truly much harder to come out from under shame, fear and worthlessness.

Acknowledge the vulnerability, frustration and sadness, or whatever you don’t want to feel while also acknowledging the hope. I was ridiculously blessed this week as I desperately tried to be kinder to my body. My husband was so present and made sure that as my muscles fired “extra,” he was never far away. My kids were kind with hugs, prayers and care. And my youngest heard me talking to my husband about purchasing a new massager but wanting to wait due to some upcoming bills. She didn’t miss a beat. “Mom, take my pet-sitting money!” She quickly retrieved it and brought it to me. I could not believe it, I didn’t see an ounce of selfish in her eyes, I just felt the love of God, profoundly.

On the flip side, a dear friend who normally does not “let people in,” was going through a particularly hard week. I was very honored that she trusted me with her tears, anger and staggering loss. And at the same time, grateful, knowing that she had a bit of relief just “being herself for a few minutes” even though there was no “fixing this.”

Oh so hard…and so good to be loved and supported. I pray that as you go into the week, you can find more kindness for yourself and others, you can feel hope for the week and that even in the struggle, you can trust yourself even a bit.

Both…and

Psalm 13