What happens before a Scar?

I'm sitting in carpool line. If I time it just right, I can park directly in front of my daughter's classroom door. We are most often the first ones out of the gauntlet. I won't waste your time explaining the illogical rationale for this daily frenzy at 2:50. I will say only that I must arrive at least 40 minutes early to get my spot.

I told you it was illogical.

I spend that time reading, writing, or napping. The only blog I read daily is http://www.aholyexperience.com/. It arrives about the time I pull into my elite spot. If I'm not too cranky or tired, I read it. Some days I don't want to hear or think about pure or holy things. I can never grasp everything she is saying. Ever. I try to contemplate just one idea.

Anne is talking about scars today. As always, it's lyrical, lovely, and profound. After reading this, I have the odd desire to have more scars.

I have scars. There's the one on my bottom lip that juts out and makes a fabulous pout which I'm still inclined to use. This is my first lasting scar occurring just before my first birthday. It's a reminder that I've always, always been clumsy. Then there's the large one on my shin. The summer before 6th grade I was absolutely DONE with dark, long hairs on my legs. Dressed in jeans --in Houston, no less--to conceal my gash, I asked Mom if I could shave the day after my introduction to razors. She replied in no uncertain terms, "NO!" That scar is a reminder that my uninformed, impulsive behavior can cause injury. As a seamstress, I was mad as a hornet when a C-section was performed during my hysterectomy. Any self respecting sewer knows what happens when a straight line seam is sewn below an area with a curve. I didn't need a stitch to create a band for the excess to fold over, thank you. I cannot see that large scar, so it doesn't count.

For about a year after I took off the wedding band I'd worn perpetually for over 22 years, I had a white, atrophied circle on my left finger. I called it my scar. It was the only physical evidence of a gaping wound within.

Aside from my ring finger, I can touch any of the scars I've mentioned and I have no sensation whatsoever. They are painless.

If you are a visual reader and are grossed out easily, just click the red box and be done now.

Right now I'm pondering what happens before a scar forms a monument to a past wound. Obviously there is a wound first. The depth of the wound and the source of the wounding are critical to the care administered. If things go awry, bad stuff happens. Garden variety cuts and scrapes form a scab. That scab, when ready, will simply fall away revealing a white or pink layer of new skin. Sometimes there are accidents and the scab is ripped off before it's ready. Ouch. Then there are people like me, who, bless my stupid heart will pick that scab away. Mom still keeps band-aids at the ready. (Apparently there is a "picker" gene.) I cannot imagine how much worse I'd been if Hello Kitty and Micky Mouse band-aids had been in every cabinet in our home in the 70's. Even with the knowledge gained that picked scabs delay healing, I still did it. I will, in mindless moments, still pick at a scab. (I'm pondering that on an emotional level too, now. Hmmmm.)

I'm astonished at the mystery of watching something jagged, with dimension transform itself into new skin. New life. I'm even more fascinated by emotional healing.

This week I had this thought, "I think I'm recovering." Instead of being mired with impatience, anger, and worry, my days are filled with daily minutiae, joy, possibilities, and the normal frustrations of living in a broken world. My potty mouth has even improved. I considered, quite briefly, if I'm forming scar tissue.

Until one email from my ex-husband ripped the scab off the wound and I was oozing with rage, disbelief, even shame. That's why I'm thinking about scabs.

I'm wondering aloud if some wounds never heal completely in this life? Particularly ones involving loss and children. Ask anyone who has buried a child or someone who lives with a disability. I truly don't know.

I've been mad for several days that my scab was ripped off. I'm mad that I have an enemy. I hate that I have to keep an attorney on retainer. I'm incensed that co-parenting is not possible for me.

In the past, I would have directed that fear and anger inwardly and sat down like a bunny--blinded and scared by an oncoming car. That was then. This is now.

I'm directing my anger and frustration into the power that can thrust 30 pounds of steel weight over my head for the fourth set of 10. I'm using my electric sander on chairs bought at thrift stores and garage sales that will give my house a face lift. More importantly, I'm asking God to continue the work He started in me. I long for wholeness-which for me will include lots of scars. No doubt, more to come.

I love the passages of scripture that speak of Christ's resurrected body. Even that perfect new body had scars. It's because of His scars I know that, one day, I will be complete. For the time being, I find comfort that as Anne says, "He knows. He knows."

And so this afternoon I offer back my wounds and my scars and ask, "Lord, make me more like you."

**Full disclosure- I feel compelled to correct the idea that if available in the 70's I'd had smiley faces or Mighty Mouse adorning my body. My mother, in a million years would NEVER have bought those. If hidden cameras were available at the Cleburne Kroger, I'd bet the farm that EDaddy buys the fun band-aids available at Star Ranch. If I'm wrong, I'll agree to never to pick a scab again.

1st, 3rd, and 5th

First, Third, and Fifth had no relevance to me until the early part of this century. No one in my family had been divorced with children prior to that time. It's as familiar to me now as my iPhone. 

You may be the only person left in America still in the dark regarding that term. I have two things to say to you:

1. Congratulations! You don't live with the consequences of divorce in your world. I'll broadly define world as you or someone you know well enough to know his/her schedule. 

2.  1st, 3rd, and 5th is slang for standard possession for the parent that doesn't have the children living with them full time. (I'm trying very hard not to use legal jargon. I know it now; but, I think it can be confusing and unnecessary. And pompous.)

The judge in our case gave my ex husband the option of expanded possession. This means he gets our daughter every Thursday night overnight and returns her to school on Friday mornings. On, (fill in the blank) 1st, 3rd, and 5th weekends he returns her to school on Monday mornings. Holidays are alternated between parents. During even years, the father gets Spring Break. The expanded schedule, over the course of the year is a couple of points away from a 50/50 time split. 

March had Spring Break and a 5th weekend. A cursory counting on the calendar and I'm counting 18 days that I've spent with my 10 year old since March 1st. Most of those are school days. It's a consequence and reality of my life that stinks. I'm grateful, truly grateful that she enjoys being with her father. On days when I don't hear from her, I've learned to be content knowing that she is busy and happy. 

This is the our first weekend together in eons and I had all kinds of wonderful plans for the two of us. I enjoy her. I'm particularly enjoying conversations with her now. She's witty and has some surprisingly mature insight.  Of course, I'm already informed regularly of my ignorance and am being taught the real ways things should be done.

And so I sit here alone in our house.

Her clear choice for the evening was for she and her "best cousin" Emma to attend Friday Nite Live. It's sponsored by the Lewisville School District and is a "total blast". My plans were never mentioned. Instead, I made the arrangements. I savored the moments of listening to them laugh and talk in the back of the van during the transport from our rendezvous spot with the other van driver and money provider, Carol. There are few things that satisfy my soul more than hearing two little girls whom I love passionately enjoy one another. Their laughter resonates within my marrow. 

Neither child will even consider what I'm doing right now. If by some freak of nature one of them asks me what I did, my guess is that it will only be out of Southern courtesy. They don't care that I'd rather be with them listening, participating, sharing in their world(s). They have no idea that I would think staring at the TV when they are watching A Pair of Kings would be fun because I could relish watching them crack up over silly humor. They'd assume my laughter was based on the line delivered by a Disney child actor.

If either of them would have been concerned about my loneliness and offered to forgo their plans, I'd be vastly more despondent tonight. My heart is pleased that they are making memories together. I'll hear about the pie eating contest, the Cheeto relays, and what they bought with their tickets on the drive back to Richardson. Their neon hair will glow in the rearview mirror. Their location jokes will not translate well and yet, I am positive that I will engage my genuine laugh at several points in the telling. They are living the lives of little girls. I can't believe they are 10 and 11 now. I'll blink and I'll no longer be told in detail the events of the evening. I won't be needed to chauffeur and I'll be even dumber and more embarrassing than I am now. Grace will be there then, as it is this night.

It's made me ponder.  I wonder how many times God has really looked forward to spending time with me, only for me to choose differently? In the past, I'd have immediately felt shame. Old tapes would say, "Lori you have hurt God's feelings....you are unloving and selfish." Tonight I am able to ask the question and consider a wholly different possibility. Maybe God feels pleased that two of His beloved are growing up. Lori can sit with her loneliness and make healthy choices about how to manage those feelings. It's not Annie Beth's job to fill the lonely spaces within me. As parent, I delight, sometimes, (wink) in my child and who she is becoming. I am confident that Annie Beth made the best choice tonight. She's with her cousin and her friends in a safe, supervised environment. Even without omniscience or omnipresence, I can enjoy her from afar. How grateful I am for the profound gift of parenthood. Even with creature-ly limitations, I can glimpse a bit of how my Father might feel about me. 

I am lonely tonight, but I am never alone. Grace abounds.

Only two more hours and I get to pick them up.

 

Physics, Who Cares?

In the perfect logic of a 19 year old, I chose Social Work as a major for two reasons:

1. One math class was required  

2. Football Physics could count as a science requirement.

Okay, three reasons:

3. Once I got married and had kids, social work would surely help me be a better wife and parent. 

I'm not kidding. And I'm embarrassed to admit number three was absolutely something I'd say aloud. Note to self, "congratulate yourself for learning to filter some truths."

I graduated from Baylor in 1987 with a Bachelors Degree in Social Work. I did not, however, leave with better math skills or one iota of concern for physics or science, really. 

Whether or not I intended to become intimately involved with two physical laws, is hard to estimate. But with a needed shove from a friend--pretty sure there's a physics term for that--force?, I joined a gym and hired a trainer. I think of physics constantly now. Particularly, these two laws:

1. Inertia-in·er·tia/iˈnərSHə/

Noun:

A tendency to do nothing or to remain unchanged.

*A property of matter by which it continues in its existing state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line, unless that state is...

2. Gravity

grav·i·ty/ˈgravitē/

Noun:

The force that attracts a body toward the center of the earth, or toward any other physical body having mass. 

I can also add, free of charge, that Inertia makes Gravity FAR worse in the mirror. Back to that defintion...If inertia is a uniform motion in a straight line, explain cellulite! I see no straight lines.  I actually understand that another law of physics is involved in that process, so don't lecture me about that law. I earned  my hail damage through this equation:

Buttercream Icing + Intertia = Cellulite.

Let me share what I know about physics after about a month in the gym. I'm a word girl, not a symbol or equation person. I'll keep this simple.

Intertia- Something that hasn't moved in years will hurt when you move it again. It can make you dizzy, sick, and utterly exhausted. All day. 

Gravity is unavoidable.

If something hangs lower because it's older and bigger, it hurts trying to lose it or reposition it. A lot. It will cause profuse sweating, muscle fatigue, and can trigger sounds you never knew you were capable of making. By the time you get that doggie lifted towards the imaginary hydrant, the beat of the music is no concern.

I take this moment to apologize to every adult I ever sneered or laughed at when he or she grunted while rising from any position. I also apologize to those "old ladies" my Mom's age who faithfully attended the aerobics class I helped Carol teach. I understand your problem was not lack of rhythm. 

Annie Beth asked me the other day, "Momma, when will you stop grunting everytime you get up or walk?" L- "Sweetie, it's permanent. It's penance for scoffing at physics."

If you're at my Neighborhood Wal-Mart and hear groaning or grunting, holler, "Hi, Lori!" I'll be on the next aisle silently cursing the 16 year old stock boy for putting my Ozarka water bottles on the top shelf. I picked those because they required only arm forward motion.

PS...I vow not to be obsessed with weight loss and calories in this blog. I just want to be healthier and enjoy living in my body more. I will not give up buttercream frosting for a lifetime. Or banana laffy taffy.