Learning Enough

I could point to lots of reasons I haven't consistently posted anything in months. All of them would be true. All are valid reasons. I write lots of posts in my mind and they never reach the page. I do write every day. Sometimes my writing is done through correspondence with friends. Sometimes writing is just for me in my journal. Today, however, my Inner Muse is writing. She is also saying, "Put it in print, Lori." 

My muse is kind-hearted and gentle. My inner critic is brutal. It would seem logical that I would follow the muse who speaks kindly and offers encouragement.

Call it conditioning.
Call it masochism.
Call it craziness.

I don't fully understand it either.

I respond most often to the Brutal Critic!

So, Brutal Critic you are banned from my world today. The voice to whom I'm responding is letting me know that there just might be a few others who'd like to hear this dust from my trails.

(For those that may be stuck on the page of "Good grief!! SHE IS CRAZY!".... The muse is not an audible voice. And I do know that I am not TRULY a Fairy Godmother--at least not one with magical powers. Wink.)

I never intended to be a public blogger. I'm just terribly unorganized and I thought blogspot would be easy to find. I'm never quite sure where I put my journal.
Or my pen.
Or my reading glasses.
I just got found. Then a few people asked for some more stuff, blah, blah, blog.


I wish Inner Muse was writing something funny--like when a friend at the gym pointed out that everyone could see the writing on my panties THROUGH MY SHORTS!

(I do love my orange and black striped panties that say Wicked AND glow in the dark, though--a Halloween happy from Jenny. Putting those on is the only time I'm willing to turn around and look in the mirror. I cackle every single time--full out belly laugh in the dark! It's so good to be known--which is really what I'm musing.)

I'm lonely. A lot. Not the kind of lonely that gets solved by a quick fix of chatting with someone at the grocery store. No. I'm talking about the yearning that craves the emotional intimacy of being known fully and still  loved completely. The loneliest place I've ever been was in my marriage and falsely believing that I didn't have an option to leave. One gift that I received during that time, though was that I began offering my ears and heart to others--even at the grocery store. I figured that if I was lonely and hurting and seeking connection, there might be a person or two in my path each day that might feel alone or isolated or trapped or desperate.

So I started experimenting. I had a demanding toddler at the time. Although I admit to loving a romantic story and cry when The Bachelor proposes each season. I'm mostly a realist. I can enjoy the romance; but, I know that life happens and people are people.

I do not enjoy failure.

I set my bar low. At minimum my daily goal was to look directly into people's eyes, particularly people in serving positions. (Been there. Always stunned me when I was invisible to people....."Ummmmmm....Standing right here!!")

My goal was to let them know without words that I really saw them. When coupled with a genuine smile and a thank you, guess what happened? Most people responded in kind. When a genuine question or a sincere comment was added, I discovered that people wanted to connect. The goal was not to be best buddies with every person I met. That's just stupid. No, I was trying to offer to others what I longed for--connection, to be seen. I was also searching for souls who might share my love and passions for life.

I didn't know at the time that I was also training myself to cherish the connected moments that did happen. My journals are full of now forgotten moments between me and people I've only seen once or  maybe weekly at my grocery store. (OK, I used to go to the store almost every day because I don't plan ahead very often. I knew and still do know the drive-through people the best. )

Fast forward to now. Having spent almost three years divorcing and another year or so trying to rebuild a different, new life for myself and my child, I've learned something about different kinds of loneliness. Decisions we make shift the landscape of our lives. Decisions others make can do the same. Those are just a couple of ways my life has been impacted. What I know is that I cannot control life and all it's circumstances. But I can choose how I respond!

I'm discovering, to my great surprise that those years of experimentation helped me then and NOW. I learned then that I really, really love people. The more I asked God to help me love others, the more I did. When I encountered prickly, snarly people instead of judging and reacting, I began privately wondering why a person would be so ugly?

(I'm that girl who sits and makes up elaborate stories about everything and everybody I see.)

Everyone has a story. Everyone. The more story I knew, or made up, the more I was able to connect and offer grace.

BUT....how in the world does that help me now? NOW when the chit chat and stories may warm someone else, but still leaves me alone?

The skills I honed helped me attract people who also want to be known and loved. I am blessed beyond measure with deep abiding friendships. I am learning, ever so slowly, to receive words and gifts they offer me to fill the void. I learned during those desolate years how to lean into the presence of God and allow Him to sustain me.

(I'd blog on that except I've already said more than I know. I haven't really a clue how that happened or how to replicate it in another life. I just know it happened. And still happens everyday.)

I'm not diminishing the importance of God's daily, intimate presence in my life. But, 'dammit'--sorry Mom and Dad, sometimes I want to hear a real voice, have a real hand holding mine. I am whiny and obstinate. I KNOW what's best for me at all times and that needs to be a person. In my all knowing formula, shouldn't that come in the form of a partner? A man?!

Guess what? That's just not happening! Can't explain why God doesn't know what's best for me. Irreverent wink.

He's helping me embrace all of the people and moments of genuine intimacy that are in my world daily as not simply a substitute, but ENOUGH.

Ridiculous first example...So when Georgia, Carol's dog that I really kind of hated decided I was the GREATEST PERSON ON THE PLANET EARTH every time she saw me or heard my voice---so much so that if I petted her she peed everywhere, I began accepting her affection and love for exactly what it was. A spirit lifter. I mean, is there a person who will jump three feet repeatedly, race around the yard running and barking, and pee on the ground when I simply touch him? NO! Gift received. (I love Georgia now. How could I NOT?)

When my sister from another mother Jenny buys me Wicked panties for Halloween or brings me Poise cooling wipes for hotflashes that she got free with a coupon, I am being known and loved. When Brenner, her youngest whom I've blogged about calls me and asks me to go swimming with him, I am wanted and desired. When my newest adopted family member, Mary insisted I spend Christmas with them, I was grafted into a new family. When I hear her daughter Lily screaming my name from the inside of their house as I park my truck, I embrace and accept that as passionate, unfettered love. When Patty called and asked if I would be Godmother to she and Carrie's unborn daughter, Charlotte, how could I mistake this as anything but deep, trusting, committed love? I am gaining another child and Annie Beth said, "I'm getting the sister I always wanted!" When Annie Beth shifted back into a place of wanting to snuggle beside me while we watch tv or play on our electronics, let's face it, I'm a weepin' mess!

What more could I ask for without being petulant?

Am I alone? No. Not really.
I asked.
I looked.
I received.

I am grateful.

An Embroidered Pocket: Sue Dickens

Tears have been flowing intermittently down my cheeks now for 12 hours or so. I found out last night that one of Annie Beth's favorite teachers died yesterday. As I write this I have no details about the circumstances. The specifics matter, of course; but, for what my heart feels it wouldn't make any difference. The truth is that I didn't know a lot about her daily life beyond school anyway.  The intersection of my life with hers, though is forever sealed in my heart.

I cry because I will never get to hug her again or read on Facebook about how much she's enjoying her 8:00 AM cup of coffee at her kitchen table during her retirement. She's outside of my earthly touch.

I have written some of these very words directly to her on many occasions. I'm so grateful that I lavishly appreciated her with words and gifts. She was a humble person and would have been slightly embarrassed by the attention she would receive from public applause. To honor her memory and encourage all of us to love well, I offer my words today.

There is a pocket in my heart that has Sue Dicken's name embroidered on it. This story is really not about me and my daughter. It's about Sue and the community in which I knew her, Highland Village Elementary. To fully appreciate why my Sue pocket is still tender and so important, my story is necessary.

I was the copy mom for the entire group of first grade teachers in 2009 when I filed for divorce in late April. I spent two afternoons a week at the school helping these marvelous women. (I also have pockets in my heart for Emily Heitzmann, Stahr Freedle, Donna Bailey, and Shana Murphy.) I spoke privately with Emily, Annie Beth's primary teacher. In addition, I met with the Principal, Sherry Wagner and the Vice Principal, Karen Wright.--both equally precious and amazing women. Annie Beth referred to them as The President and Vice President of the school. I never corrected her because I loved hearing it so much. I knew she'd eventually figure it out and those terms would be lost forever.

Karen's daughter Audrey and my daughter were special friends. Karen knew that Annie Beth needed just the right teacher for second grade. Karen was moving to Seattle before the next school year; but, through her own tears, shed for me, she assured me that they would carefully place her with the best suited teacher. Karen had taught fourth grade with Sue and knew her well--considered Sue a mentor and model teacher. Karen told me that Sue's loving, patient, and gentle spirit would be a perfect fit.

Just before school started, in order for me not to share a residence with my husband and still maintain joint custody, we agreed to nest. Nesting is legal jargon for this: the child lives in the house. The parents move in and out of the house on alternating weeks. I was a stay at home Mom stripped of my job every other week. The only time I could see Annie Beth on alternate weeks was at lunch on school days. We Skyped most nights after she returned from her sitter's house around 10:00 PM. (I write this with intention. Her bedtime was 9:00. I started the bedtime routine at 8:30 each night.) Important to note as well, my child has never been a cheerful morning person. She also had decided in first grade that she wanted long, beautiful hair like Audrey. Did I mention that Annie Beth is/was not a fan of brushing her hair? She is tender-headed and not afraid to loudly express her displeasure.

Sue Dickens was more than a teacher to my child. Sue partnered with me and loved Annie Beth as an extension of her family. She also nurtured us so tenderly and gently by allowing Annie Beth to come into the copy room each week for a few minutes so I could have one more chance to touch her.

Sue loved me through hugs. Lots of hugs. Very few words. Tears and hugs. My journal overflows with daily examples of how she loved us well during a turbulent time. During that year she also further instilled a love for words and writing within Annie Beth.

All this for one child and her family, in a class of 20. There is no doubt that our story is not dissimilar from so many others--years of classrooms full of children.

Tears flow anytime I think about this particular day. Annie Beth rarely called in the mornings before school. That day, I answered to hear a sobbing, sleep-deprived child begging not to go to school. The more I tried to be loving and logical, the more irrational she became. I was able to finally piece together that her hair was in such a rat's nest that she was embarrassed to go to school. Days of neglect will do that. I suggested that she put on a hat and go to school. That's all I could do. I emailed Sue to warn her.

That day when the other children were out of the classroom, Sue got a brush and tried her very best to gently and lovingly detangle my child's hair. I'll never forget her laughter, eyes crinkled together when she told me, "Lori, I had boys! I've never done girl hair! I tried, though."

That's the day her name became embroidered in my heart pocket. It was painful then. The needle pricking flesh of how my life's decision circumstances translated into pain within other people's lives. My mind's eye sees the threads as Annie Beth's hair plucked from the bristles of Sue's brush or ones from the square tiles of the classroom floor. They form a brown background and over the years those yellow highlights have turned more golden. Yesterday those strands were transformed into 24 carat gold. I believe with all my heart that one day when Sue and I are reunited face to face, I will give her these strands of perfect gold from my heart. She will in turn give them to our loving Heavenly Father. He will hug her and say, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."

I Hear You

I posted for Gay's blog today. Although only six when her mom died, Gay was expected to raise her then barely toddling sister. That sister, her only sibling is dying.


February 16, 2013

Dear Friends,

I just hung up the phone after a brief conversation with Gay. At "Hello", her voice weak and weary from uncertainty, travels, sleeplessness, I knew that this was a time to listen more than talk. Feeling the limitations  of technology, I said, "Oh, Gay, I wish I lived in Denver and could be there with you today." I even had the fleeting thought that I might hop a plane and make that happen, if only for 36 hours, most of which would be consumed in travel. I wanted to add the dimension of touch into my love and concern.

She said, "Oh honey, I do too. But in quiet moments I can hear your voice saying, 'I'm prayin' for y'all.' And I'm comforted."

It's made me ponder in yet another way about presence and how it manifests itself.

I'm clearly labeling this as Lori's best guess; but, what I heard was that her mind was hearing my actual voice saying those words. (Mostly because Gay would never eliminate a 'g' from the 'ing'. Much more, because she has probably never said, y'all except in quoting another.) I wouldn't know how to explain how this happens without lots of research and usage of a very boring quote from a textbook. I just know that, for good or bad, our mind can recreate the voice of another person. I'm convinced, out of experience, that it's repetition that plays most strongly in how our brain reproduces a voice.


Words and voices are powerful—great gifts when used in love.

I read an amazing quote this week:

Sometimes it is a great joy just to listen to someone we love talking  Vincent McNabb

It made me think immediately of the videos I watch constantly of my dear friend's 3 month old baby oohing and laughing. Hearing my four year old boyfriend say, "Mimi, I yub you." I save certain voice messages that are particularly special to me—so many from Gay. I listen to them regularly.

Savor the gift of voice, sound, presence.

Baste all your words with love. Choose wisely. Repeat essentials liberally.

Cherish moments.
Record memories.
Write down words.
Capture images.
In dark moments, frozen times of despair,
those memories,
                 recordings,
                             images,
                                       may be what comfort in inexplicable ways.


Please continue to pray for Gay and her family as they await Beth's departure from this life into the next.
Maranatha, ~lori

Just Swallow the Medicine (Expletive deleted)!!!

I'm glad my daughter places little value on knowing what happens in my inner world--particularly the dust I shake off here in my blog. It's not remotely interesting or important to her that I have feelings or thoughts or experiences outside the context of my relationship with her. She's eleven. Normal.  I'm in agreement with her that concern over my inner world is simply not her job. Based on the assumption that she will NOT read this, and with a gut feeling that I'm not alone in this world of parenting by myself, I'm taking the risk of being in trouble with her. 

Without her permission or knowledge, I'm learning about a side of myself that I'm not particularly fond of. I can't call it a blind side. I've known about it for a long time. Seeing it in another person and facing my reaction, that's where the story begins.

I've nominated myself for WMOTY so many times these last 3 weeks, I've made enough noise that the people are just gonna give it to me. The plaque on my trophy will read: 

Lori Clark 

Worst Mother of the Year

Before those of you want to rescue me out of my award, let me build some scenarios with you. Trust me, I earned my trophy.

I got the flu the day after Annie Beth came home for my portion of the Christmas holiday. I was miserable. By the time I connected the dots of my symptoms, it was too late for Tamiflu. When her throat got sore and she felt yucky, I took her into the clinic for a prescription. My mom was scheduled for her bilateral mastectomy the following Wednesday in Houston. Annie Beth would have to go to her father's house. I knew that would mean she would be lying around his office floor while he worked. The obscene price of $323.01 was no barrier to my decision to medicate her. This flu was nasty business and I didn't want her to experience what I felt. I wasn't willing to cancel my trip to Houston to be present with my Mom and Dad during a very serious and frightening time.

Annie Beth has a gag reflex that still alarms me. She hasn't learned to swallow a pill. She balks and resists ALL attempts to medicate her--even with the good tasting bubblegum Tylenol. I taste all her meds.

I've tasted some hideous medicines in my life, I can't think of one worse than Tamiflu. 

Let me also add....having been around lots of kids in my life, I know there are those kids who are docile, nearly angelic beings who need little more than snuggling and TLC on their road to recovery. I did not get that child. At all. 

When after the first hour she had diluted, spit out, and gagged on the first dose of this miracle medicine that would help her feel better and alleviate some of my guilt for leaving a sick child, I was irritated and angry. I white-knuckled it and offered her fake mercy/grace. I texted my sister who has successfully raised 4 kids without a single death or maiming, "how I can stay out of prison and still get her to take the medicine??!!!!" Carol-  "Put it in a milkshake or ice cream." BRILLIANT! I put on clothes and got her THREE kinds of ice cream to choose from. 

Let's hit the low points now. 

2 hours after the ice cream is melted.....

Both of our faces are puffy from angry tears.

She's heard the story I was saving for a tender teaching moment about the boy who died over Christmas from flu complications. "YOU COULD DIE!" ( shameful red face emoticon)

She's paid me $30.00 of her Christmas money for the ice cream dosage that was thrown at me. 

In total.....5 hours after we started, while I'm in a self appointed time out, I hear her gagging down the medicine. 

I place my ice cream container in the recycle bin.

Fast forward to the following Sunday...she's missed 5 days of school. She now has a double ear infection and pneumonia. 

Three oral meds:

Inhaler

Steroids

Antibiotic--twice daily 10 days. Kill me now, I thought.

Prednisone is the third worst medicine I've tasted.

Low points:

I quarantined myself to the back of the house.

The next morning when her symptoms were no better, she admitted she'd lied to me and had thrown the steroid down the sink. 

The urgent care center DOES charge to simply check your oxygen level with that stupid little machine.

Reality of IV, hospital stay, more missed school, NOT graduating from 5th grade! didn't matter to my child.

All she had to do was guzzle down two teaspoons of medicine.

TWICE DAILY for 10 days. 

While I was fuming again.....

On day 5, I finally had the sense to ask God what He thought of all of this.....

I really do want to be that Mom who loves well and learns. I want to offer that correct combination of truth and love. 

Here's what I really love about God, He often approaches me like Jesus did with His followers when He was here on earth. Like that time when they noticed how badly others were behaving? He responded with words so familiar to me:

Luke 6:42

New International Version (NIV)

⁴² How can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when you yourself fail to see the plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.

In my heart, I heard, "Lori, why are you avoiding what I've asked of you?"


I'm not gonna lie. I'm deleting some of the internal conversation I had with God regarding the question--most of it is not polite or could be labeled "Christian". It started like this.... "Weren't we talking about Annie Beth? She's the problem, you know."

I'll just cut to the good stuff.

I cannot control others. (although, I crave that power often.)  The only person I can control is Lori. It is true that I understand more than Annie Beth about many things. I know that we can avoid some negative outcomes with certain precautions and applied resources. She had done nothing to earn sickness--that just happened in this circumstance. She did, however, have control over the outcome.

I knew medicine would HEAL HER. My intent wasn't malice. My intent was for good and ultimately wholeness. It did require her, however, to experience something unpleasant, for a brief time. No promise of pain free treatment. The minimum requirement was to swallow. Simple for me because I had more perspective.

Fast forward a week.

I am being COMPLETELY HONEST HERE....as I'm typing this I'm waiting on Annie Beth to take her new antibiotic that was prescribed for a returned double ear infection. She knows that if she is running a fever tomorrow, as she is NOW, she will not be able to go to school on Monday. She is still making up work from the two weeks she missed previously. She will also miss honor choir after school---more motivation to take the medicine. I picked up the medicine at 12:30. It's 4:35. 

I can't force medicine down her throat. I'm taking a different approach because I can today. There's nothing that prevents me from staying with her at home this week. I'm more available and able to allow natural consequences to teach her this week. It will cause me pain also. She will not be alone in her pain if she continues to resist me. I am not omniscient, omnipresent, or perfect. I can, however, seek help from the One in my life whom I know to be all of those things. 

Those traits in Annie Beth that send me over the edge are my planks. With God's help, I'm making steps toward his request of me. If The Worst Mother of the Year can have even an ounce or two or unconditional love and concern for a stubborn, petulant, sick child, I cannot imagine how much God must love me!? My steps may be harder than my 11 year old's steps to health; however, I know also that my God wants me to grow and thrive. I see me stalling, making excuses, avoiding, thrashing, and being angry about each new step that will lead me out of a place that I don't want to be anyway! 

So I'm moving forward with the one person whom I have control. I'm also offering my child the chance to learn and grow, even if it's not my easiest option. I am so grateful I am not alone in my pursuits. I've surrounded myself with people of faith, love, integrity, and humor who walk alongside me daily. More, I know that God meets me each moment in ways that only He can. He is faithful even with stubborn, petulant 47 year old women.


PS. It's 6:04 and she's still standing in the kitchen staring at the 2 teaspoons of medicine. Her homework is done, the cats are fed.......     : /

Internal Chatter

I just published this on Gay's blog.


December 30, 2012

Dear Friends,

Gay continues to steadily improve and will join us again in blog-world next week. In a conversation today, she referred to her time away from writing as a vacation. If a vacation is what she had, sign me up for something else! She, of course, was joking. She has worked harder than ever, in a different way, to ensure her return home. I'm grateful for the opportunity to share a bit of my life, learned primarily through Gay's investment in me, with each of you. 

Last week, I was fully aware of the raw emotion and the vulnerability on my part in posting such bare portions of my inner world. I wanted to illustrate something learned from years of knowing Gay. She has given me a great gift in this phrase, "Lori, you are not alone." It has generally been followed by, something like, "I cannot tell you how many women I've heard speak those same words...." 

When a negative emotion is involved, particularly shame, silence and isolation feed the flames of destruction. Words articulated, whether verbally or in writing, help lessen the power of shame. If empathy is introduced, seedlings of change are watered. 

One precious friend who read the post and took the time to comment on Facebook and in person noted how she cried as she read it. I was so grateful that she told me why she cried. I've learned that one can never assume why a person is crying. Tears are complicated-- sad, angry, confused, often unearthing buried events of old. She said, "Lori, I was crying because of the negative chatter in your head."

I intentionally shared that internal chatter. Unspoken conversations with ourselves can be highly destructive and confusing. When I met Gay 23 years ago, I was largely unaware of the ongoing negative chatter in my head. I was even more ignorant of what power those words had in my daily life. She helped me discover the sources of some of the consistent, destructive forces--my furies. 

Do I still struggle with internal chatter? CLEARLY, yes! That said, over time, I have learned to sift and sort through lies and truth, sources and fuel. Even better, I know how to find sources of life giving, affirming replacements. 

Looking back at my chatter just before the ugly cry breakdown in my kitchen last week, did I sob because I broke the head off of the cutest yoga man cookie I'd ever made? No.

I wouldn't have known that 23 years ago, though. By following the progression of thoughts, I was able to figure out what I was really feeling at that moment. 

I was frustrated by my efforts. My plan DID NOT include adding stress to the list of possible negative feelings. Did I think I was a failure, though? No. I know I am competent and highly creative. 

Did I make a colossal mess in the kitchen? Yes. 

Can I clean well? Yes. Do I want  to clean well? NO! 

Did my 8th grade teacher give great advice about not eating frosting as you work? Yes! Why? She knew, from experience that the result is awful.

Remembering my intention helped me hone in on the core issue: do something I enjoy that connects me with others during a lonely time. My project compounded an issue. Now I was a frustrated lonely person having to fight off furies of the past. Is anyone else exhausted? 

I had a choice for my next decision that night. Leave the kitchen a mess and wallow in self pity. Which, historically involve lots of butter cream frosting and  a combination of romantic comedies and tragic films. Or listen to a loving, kind voice within my Spirit that said, "Lori, it's time for church. Change your focus."

I recognize that voice as the spirit of God in my life. 

In the past I often ran from God or rebelled against Him in response to situations I didn't understand. More importantly, I confused that negative chatter in my mind and heart with His messages to me. 

Nothing could be further from the truth. 

God's voice never belittles or condemns. He loves me and his communication with me and to me is always based in love. Love is who He is, not simply what He does. 

By responding to His message to change my focus, I opened up my heart and mind to the supernatural. At that moment I had no real power to change my feelings of isolation and loneliness. Knowing answers didn't change my circumstances; but, because God loves perfectly and with such tenderness, I was able to enter into a place of security and comfort that only He could provide. 

The story got better as the week progressed. I am sincere when I say that I truly wasn't looking for pity or attention by writing of my frustrations and loneliness. My goal was to draw attention to the powerful combination of doing internal, emotional work and then offering your pain and concerns to God, whom I believe is more than able to meet us in that place of suffering. I knew I was only one of what surely amounts to millions of people who were alone and feeling sad during Christmas.

I'm blessed beyond measure with lots of dear friends. I know that I can invite myself into their homes and I am welcome. My plan was to be content with pretending that Christmas day was simply another Tuesday doing quiet things alone. Instead, I had two lovely, barely optional invitations for Christmas. One for lunch. One for dinner. My lunch was with a new friend and her extended family. My dinner was with friends and their extended family whom I've known for a decade. Both were filled with great stories and laughter that bonded us together in new ways. 

With fluffy white snowflakes falling outside my window that Christmas night, a rare event in Dallas, I kept thinking about this verse in scripture, 

Psalm 68:6 "God sets the lonely in families." 

Annie Beth arrived at noon on Friday and we drove to my parent's ranch just southwest of Fort Worth. The dogs and cousins all ran to greet us. We exchanged gifts, laughter, and enjoyed our feast of food. 

I will always remember my Christmas of 2012--all of it. I will, in the future keep my eyes and ears open to offer invitations to those who might, even with reluctance, need a dose of family togetherness.

As Gay would say, "Thinking with you about recognizing the difference between negative internal chatter and God's spirit of loving direction in your life. See you next week."

Blessings to each of you. ~lori

Wight Christmas

There are a few people that read my blog that are not on Facebook. I've been maintaining a friend's blog while she's been recuperating from illness. If you're interested, hop over to www.blog.gayhubbard.com. Anything I've ever learned, I got from Gay--pretty much.

I wrote this one yesterday and thought I'd share it. I'm copying it as is so that the context of what I'm talking about is intact.

December 23, 2012

Dear Friends,

I am pleased to report that Gay is home! Miss Annie is even more delighted to share her home with Gay again. It will be good for both of them to establish their regular routines and make adjustments with what might be new patterns. Your continued prayers are, as always, deeply appreciated. There will be transitions and changes for Gay over the course of the next few weeks.

I  regularly read a few blogs written by people who are well known. I often agree wholeheartedly with their words, but wonder, not so privately, "Does that person really practice this idea in his or her life?" That's one of the reasons I enjoy reading Gay's blog so much. I have the great privilege of knowing her well. Although admittedly imperfect, I know that she works on being authentic and genuine with her life and faith. 

I am neither famous nor quote worthy. My last two posts, though, have been about God's presence in our lives. That said, I'd like to share a few experiences of my life with Emmanuel--God with Us--this past week.

I was aware like tinfoil on a filled tooth that once I dropped my daughter at school on Thursday morning, I wouldn't see her again until her dad returned her to my house on December 28th at noon. I accept that my choice to divorce meant both freedom and profound loss for me, for my child, and many others. Even with my full acceptance comes the reality of being without her on Christmas every other year. It's painful. I get to choose, though, what I do with that pain.

As part of my survival strategy, I planned a baking project. Not just any baking project. NO. I'd found yoga posing gingerbread men that I HAD to give to my instructors. There was no way in the world I was gonna pay $9.99 per cutter. No descendant of a depression era generation would pay that! So, I decided to MAKE the cutters as well. I couldn't decide which pose was the cutest, so I made all ten poses. I started collecting the goods about a week ago.

My Saturday afternoon included 7 feet of one inch aluminum hobby siding, six batches of gingerbread, five baking sheets, four batches of white royal frosting (three ruined, one almost right), three bandaids,  two bulging trashbags, and sing along, "One extra trip to Wal-Mart." As I took my favorite and nearly perfect plow pose gingerbread man off the cooling rack, his head remained stuck to the edge of said rack. I'd beheaded my best one! I started bawling. 

It was the full out ugly cry. 

The chatter in my head sounded something like this...

"You can't do anything right!!!

Even in trying to distract yourself by doing something to give as gifts, you just make a HUGE mess!!! 

       and they don't even look good!!! 

You've done what your cake decorating teacher in 8th grade said NOT to do all day!  ---lick the frosting off your fingers. and now you're sick to your stomach to boot! You deserve it!! 

You'll NEVER learn!!  It will take hours to clean up the mess. and you stink at cleaning....Internal pause. 

And MOST of all 

YOU ARE ALONE!!" 

Thus the ugly cry.

I looked at the clock and it was 4:00 PM. There was enough time to put on a shirt, comb frosting out of my hair, slap on makeup, and head to church. Focused worship would be my best option. 

I attend a very large church in the Dallas area. In order to serve as many people as possible without needing a Cowboy stadium sized building, we have Saturday services. I attend regularly at 4:30. The parking lot was jammed packed. I'd forgotten until that moment that it was the Christmas Eve service. I sit by myself almost every week. It never bothers me. Christmas Eve service seems different, though. I quickly texted my dear friend to see if she and her husband and newborn would be there. Nope. 7:30 service. My heart sank and tears started clogging my ducts. I sucked them back and found one of only a few aisle seats that remained. I texted my friend again. "Should have planned better, I could just bawl. So alone.(sad face emoticon)"

The worship center was beautiful. The band included an upright bass, a cello, a viola, and a violin this week. They were playing and the large screens had moving visuals of stars and the night sky. Stunningly exquisite. I had all but stood up to sing the first Christmas carol when I could no longer hold back my tears. When the flood of tears escaped my squeezed shut eyelids, I felt slender fingers and a delicate touch on my shoulder. I turned to see a friend who had been in my small group back when Richard and I led the group together. She with such tenderness said, "Lori, we have an extra seat with our family, if you'd like to sit with us."

Emmanuel. 

I know His voice and I recognize His touch. He just used precious, sensitive Julie to communicate His message.

I am WITH you, Lori. 

I KNOW alone. 

I am here. 

Now.

Isaiah 53: 3

He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering.

He went to a great deal of trouble to make sure we are never alone, didn't He? He accepted responsibility for our sin, my sin so that He could make a way for us to be with Him forever. In the here and now, He also made provision for healing.

Isaiah 53:5

But he was pierced for our transgression,

he was crushed for our iniquities;

the punishment that brought us peace was on him

and by his wounds we are healed.

Tears of joy flowed easily throughout the remainder of that hour. It's rare that children attend our service because of our wonderful children's ministry. I laughed as the bow headed little girl in her ruffled red and green striped outfit danced in the aisle. During the next song, I saw out of my peripheral, three year old Jonathon, whom I'd just met, raise his little hand to mimic his daddy. That reminded me to stop singing. I love to hear the voices of little people. I can know something of that child by the way he sings. It makes me realize how much God must love hearing each of us. I leaned in a little closer across the aisle to hear a little boy sing Silent Night in the loudest voice he could muster. I noticed  his 'r' sounded like a 'w'. Translation would be, 

"wound young viw-iwgin mothew and child." 

When we repeated the song I realized that little boy was not saying bright. He had omitted the ' b'. He thought the word was either white or right. 

"Silent Night. Holy Night. All is calm. All is wight."

Yes. All was right at that moment on my Christmas Eve because of God's choice to be with me.

As if God hadn't communicated His message enough, He sealed it with a real hug and kiss. My doorbell rang about 7:00 PM. It was Annie Beth on the way to her church. She'd forgotten some vital accessories for her Kit doll. It couldn't have been more than a minute. It was more than enough.

As Gay would say, "Thinking with you again about Emmanuel. Hoping that you too, will keep your eyes and heart open for His presence in your life. He is with us and delights in our presence as well. See you next week."

Merry Christmas friends. ~lori

PS. Here are the YogaMen that were gift worthy

Still a Baylor Girl

When you reach the stage that life is measured by significant year reunions, funerals, and weddings of close friend's children and the grandchildren that follow thereafter, I'm pretty sure it means you're old.

I went back to Baylor Homecoming for my 25th class reunion. Once on campus, I realized very quickly that aside from very polite greetings from students, I had become another irrelevant parent. I had actually planned my outfits for the big weekend--something I do once a decade at best. I'll be completely honest, I did consider that I might finally snag a "Baylor boy" after all these years. (I didn't run into any divorced Baylor boys. Divorce at Baylor doesn't happen; but, that's another post.)

The only people that noticed me, were of course other old Baylor alums--other geezers that recognized my face and were pulling all the RAM they could to crank out my name before we actually had to speak. I learned just about everything I know about social graces at Baylor and this one was the dead give away I was not alone... "Girl! How are you?" Guys say, "Man!" or if trying to keep up with their kids' vernacular, "Dude!" I chose the direct approach and said, "I should know your name. Given that I cannot remember my only child's name several times a week, will you remind me of yours?"

I love Baylor and have such fond memories of living life full tilt with so many others that shared my values and ideals. Despite my goals, I was even educated well. What I value most having gone back after 25 years is what I valued most then as well, relationships.

My dearest friends at Baylor still recognize my voice when I call. They still know that if they compliment me on something, I'll tell them how much it cost. In turn they will disregard or applaud my boast about the bargain. They also know that I'm prone to hyperbole-except when it comes to my bargains. I am fiercely truthful about sale items.

Although there have been long stretches of time where communication is sparse, my core group of friends have all been committed to one another. In the past 5 years we've been even more intentional with seeing one another. We've all discovered that life gets harder. We trade up for higher sets of problems. That's growth. We also know that growth hurts. There is nothing quite so comforting as an old friend to simply listen while I cry--to feel only comfort when she wipes the inevitable snot drop off the tip of my nose.

As in all places, Baylor has it's share of one-upmanship. It's a place where to be smart, beautiful, high achieving, and spiritual is the norm, not the exception. If I'd thought I was any of the above back in the day, I could find 10 people in 5 minutes who were exponentially more than I was. That's a lot of pressure.

I never believed I was naive or young then. I was, in my most humble estimation, wise beyond my years. The one thing I did well was choose good friends with whom I could simply be flawed. It was in the safety of friendships that I could feel almost right about being average. In time, and with growth these same people are ones that I feel completely comfortable revealing both my victories and epic failures.

The bonus now, a blessing that I could have only imagined back in the 80's, is having relationships with these friend's children, so many of them legal adults now. What a delight to see traces of their mother's smile, an expression their father made that still makes me laugh, or hear that child wryly comment about her mother's method of spreading mustard from edge to edge of the bread.

There is a South African word that speaks such truth: Ubuntu- I am because we are. I am Lori Hudgins Clark because of so many people at Baylor: professors, leaders, and students. I am particularly grateful for those people who invested their love and time in me to help me know that I am part of something larger than myself and that it matters. I matter. I know, in part out of success-- mostly through failure, that I am enough.

My dear friend Jenny went to Baylor a decade after I was there. She was appalled that I didn't own Baylor clothing or a car emblem. I now have a zippered hoody, a grey hoody, a t-shirt, and a sticker on the back of my mini-van in pink that says, "Baylor Girl" It's true. Once a Baylor girl.......always.