With that said . . .

I so, so desperately need for something to change. I have been at the end of my rope in the work arena for going on three years now. Blah, blah, blah, be grateful you have a job . . . I know. But my dissatisfaction is growing up in me like a tidal wave, and I am desperate to be able to catch my breath, to break out from under the smothering force of this restlessness. I have been wrestling with this for far too long . . . I am so, so tired of these hopes deferred. I am tired of not being able to decide which direction I want to take, but more than that, I am weary at the doors that keep on closing at every turn. I just. want. SOMETHING. to. change.

There’s a song that I keep hearing on the radio that I don’t know what to do with, but the lyrics keep echoing in my mind nonetheless.

God gave me
A dream that would not die*

And that’s just it. So many of my dreams have died, or at least have faded away as I have lost interest, moved on to the next shiny object left in my path to distract me. And as doors continue to close, it is an uphill battle to convince myself that I’m not doomed to a life of career failure and dissatisfaction, that something better might yet be ahead for me. For now, I am doing everything I can to move forward, but every small setback brings back that fear that I am doomed to a lifetime of purposeless wandering. I am just not okay with that, and so I continue to press on, even when the destination is entirely unclear.

I pray that God will help me to see the next step, and that I will be faithful in this desert while I wait.

(*Shirley Murdock, The Dream that Would Not Die)

Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.
Sydney J. Harris

In the iconic television game show The Price is Right Let’s Make a Deal, one of the popular games requires the contestant to select from among three doors. If I am remembering this correctly, the prize behind Door #1 is revealed, and the contestant then needs to decide whether they are going to keep that prize, or risk asking to see what is behind Door #2 or Door #3. What’s behind those other doors could be much better than what is in front of the contestant, or it could be much worse.

I have been thinking about doors quite a bit lately as I have been reevaluating my life, because I have seen what’s behind Door #2 and Door #3 (or at least, I have seen a glimpse of each of them), and yet I stand here, hesitating, almost paralyzed by the crushing weight of inertia.

I am not happy with my life as it is. I am sure that this is no surprise to anybody who knows me. And for years, I have vacillated, unsure which direction to take. I am annoyingly fickle; it seems like I follow a given passion for a while before discarding it for the next whim or fad that comes along. A few things have remained constant, however, at least on the macro level. I have not outgrown my love for children, or my passion for fighting racism. The desire to have someone to mother is another longing that I have not been able to shake.

Over the last few years, desperate for something to change, I have felt a pull to two different doors, each related to these underlying passions. I have taken halting steps towards each of those doors; however, I have yet to make a choice, and I am hyper-aware of the fact that time is passing me by, and that every day of non-decision is a day that brings me closer to being stuck with the crappy-living-room-furniture set that is my current “Door #1”.

Behind Door #2 is the “mommy” prize. I have glimpsed into this door, even going so far as to take a few initial foster care licensing classes. My experiences with Elijah have convinced me that I would be able to do the hard work of fostering without any promise of permanency, and I am awestruck at the thought of what a gift and a privilege it would be to be in a hurting child’s life for a season. Am I certain that I could do it? Not at all. But I know that the need is huge, and I do not want to avoid doing something merely because it is difficult.

Door #3 holds the “teacher” prize. Having pursued (repeatedly, and unsuccessfully) a particular alternative teacher certification program has been a roller coaster. Certainty that it was going to happen, followed by crushing disappointment. Trying again . . . and again. Still not succeeding, and yet, unable to shake the almost visceral sense that this is what I am meant to do. That feeling ebbs and flows . . . working a temp job grading standardized tests recently, I felt the pull again, “seeing” these students and their need through their essay answers. Who is going to speak for those who have no one to advocate for them? Again, the need is huge, so why not me?

I have begun to identify steps that would bring me closer to being able to walk through one or the other of these doors, but I have a long way to go. I am paralyzed by indecision, however, and my greatest fear is that I will continue NOT to act, that I will indeed waste my life. Tomorrow isn’t promised, and my body reminds me daily that I am getting older. If I don’t do something now, I am certain that I will wake up one day an old lady, sitting on that outdated piece of furniture that will daily serve as a reminder of the way that I chose the default option, the “safe” choice that is no choice at all.

I believe I was created to live a life that matters. That I am not moving in that direction is a travesty of the worst sort. I need to fling open one of these doors; there is work to be done. I say that I want to live the way my heroes did, but those words ring hollow in the shadow of my inaction. I need to work around the pile of excuses that have held me back for so long. I need to move forward, because life will not wait for me. And the one thing I am certain of is that what is beyond those other doors will enrich my life in ways that I cannot yet fathom.

I just pray that I don’t miss it.

Apparently they are missing the fact that my heart is broken . . . or that a piece of me is over a thousand miles away. So although it is that I have returned safely, please don’t say that I am back “in one piece”.

(going to try Nablopomo again; however, the entries will probably be short if they’re going to happen daily . . . )

the questions that are currently getting in the way of my falling asleep:

• how is it that a person can be so convinced that things are heading in one direction, to feel in the deepest part of their being that this thing is going to come to pass, but then have that certainty shattered in a few short hours by an equally intense pull in the opposite direction? To “know that you know that you know” a thing, but then to be confronted with a sense of being equally certain of another thing that, if true, would make the former thing, that thing that you were so sure was about to come to pass, an impossibility?
• how much does a person choose to give up out of love for someone else? This is where I know that I am quite clearly NOT as much like Jesus as I would like to be . . . because a selfishness screams out of me, and the words I’ve heard so often echo in my mind . . . is it a lie, something the world tells us, or is it a healthy level of self-preservation that brings the advice, “you need to take care of YOU . . . you can’t live your life for other people”? even in this, there’s confusion, because the reasons I want to do this thing “for me” have so much to do with this calling I’m convinced I have to “do” for others. . .
• how do I let go of my desire to feel like what I’m doing is “important”, as I define that word? (part of that definition involves a rejection of any other person’s attempt to convince me that my idea of “important” is too limited.)
• is my dissatisfaction with my life a flaw in my character, or is it a catalyst that will bring me to a place where I can assuage this intolerable, unrelenting restlessness? really, will I ever have a life that I don’t despise? it’s not even so much about having a “Spark-worthy” life as it is about feeling like I am doing what I was meant to be doing. is the problem really in my circumstances, or am I doomed to be restless, dissatisfied, and feeling like an underachiever for the rest of my days on this earth?!

The crazy thing is that all of this middle-of-the-night speculation is based upon two things that I don’t know at this moment. In other words, neither has come to pass as of yet. There is this thing that I feel so certain is going to come to pass, but there is also this new bit of information that would wreak havoc on that certainty.

In a few days, I will know about the latter, and in three weeks or less, I will know about the former. But in this moment, I have zero knowledge that either thing will even come to pass . . .

I am just so afraid, though, no matter what the outcome, that my life will not be any less unsatisfying than it was before this journey.

And now, having spewed up some lovely self-serving, too-much-informationing ranting, I am finally feeling sleepy enough to try to go to bed . . .

buenos noches . . .

And then there was a text message on my phone. Three simple words that changed a snowy-but-leisurely Saturday into a time of grief. “Bob Reed died”. With an annoying level of predictability, I began down the “denial” phase of grief. But it wasn’t denial in that I truly didn’t believe it could be true; rather, it was that everything within me didn’t WANT to believe that it was true. Not again, God . . . not again. I have a list of people whose death would be of much greater benefit to humanity than this man’s . . . please? Can I give you that list? Can you reconsider this one?

And then I reluctantly remind myself that Bob got the “good” end of this deal . . . in the presence of Jesus, whose “Well done, good and faithful servant” surely must ring out a little louder than it does for most. From Middleville, MI (yeah, I still don’t even know where that is) to the Madison neighborhood, to Liberia, then to Ghana, Bob (along with his amazing wife Renita and their two kids, Hannah and Noah) followed Jesus wherever He asked them to go. And Bob, with his heartbreakingly witty writing, brought us along with them on the journey.

From Michigan to Monrovia and beyond, many tears and prayers are going up today . . . and in my little corner of the world, I withdraw to my home and my bed, wanting to be alone with the immensity of it all, but at the same time wanting to connect with others who understand what a huge loss this is.

As the Reeds left Liberia and prepared to move on to Ghana, Bob wrote an entry that included (in his inimitable style) these words:

Since this is not “goodbye,” but simply “HEY! We’re usually over THERE now!” I’ll spare us all the tear-jerking.

Oh Bob . . . I know that you are “over THERE now” . . . in that place where there is no more crying, no more grief, no more pain . . . but our leaden feet are left behind in this place where there IS still crying, and grief, and pain, and so much work left to be done. That God took you, who was in the midst of the work He had called you to, leaves me asking myself what God is calling *me* to do while I’m still on this earth.

I pray that your legacy will lead many, many others to follow Jesus whereever He asks them to go . . .

I already knew some of the history of how Haiti came to be. I also knew that the country has struggled mightily ever since. And while my local “Christian” radio station opined that the  DR has prospered where Haiti has failed because the former is a “Christian” country, I was more inclined to believe that the difference in skin color had much to do with it. I also couldn’t shake a nagging sense that there has been a “get back in your place, boy!” kind of attitude on the part of the white, Western world towards a black people that would dare assert that justice and freedom ought to be their birthright.

So I had to do some reading . . . and I found this article.

The part that took my breath away was this paragraph:

Haiti’s vulnerability to natural disasters, its food shortages, poverty, deforestation and lack of infrastructure, are not accidental. To say that it is the poorest nation in the Western hemisphere is to miss the point; Haiti was made poor–by France, the United States, Great Britain, other Western powers and by the IMF and the World Bank.

I want to read more . . . I want to educate myself further. Yes, please give to relief efforts, choosing wisely as you do . . . but stop and ask yourself just how we got here . . . not the earthquake itself (which was NOT God’s judgment on anyone!), but the tenuous infrastructure of a nation ill-equipped to face such a disaster.

We cry at pictures now . . . we whip out our cell phones and send ten dollars their way . . . but are we looking at ourselves? At our nation, and its role in paralyzing Haiti up until this point?

Not easy questions . . . but I will continue to wrestle with them, and I hope you will join me.

I still struggle mightily with a decision I made eight years ago to end a relationship with a friend who had become like a sister to me. For years, people had been telling me that she wasn’t good for me, and yet I held on, probably because her three kids had become like my own kids, and I couldn’t bear the thought of not having them in my life.

When it came down to it, though, she had failed to stand up for me at a crucial point, and that, combined with my continued discomfort with her parenting style, meant that I had to make that choice. It’s NOT an exaggeration to say that at the time, I needed to concentrate on keeping myself alive. But cutting off  that friendship meant that I was cut off from her children as well. There’s no provision in the law for “friend joint custody”–even grandparents are put through the wringer when they want to see their kids–and although I half-heartedly tried to reach out to them, it was years before I saw any of them again. (Thank you, Facebook!) When I did, one of the kids reamed me out, a reaming I know I deserved, but despite the fact that I will always regret having walked out of their lives, I still maintain that I “had” to do it.

This doesn’t, however, make it any easier to live with myself.

Fast-forward a few years, and I found myself in a situation where I was the “cut-off-ee”, so to speak. What was hard for me in that situation was that the friendship was severed with very little explanation, and when I pushed for an explanation, the one I was given was entirely vague and not at all satisfying of my confusion, anger and hurt.

So I then put myself into a different category–”Sure, I’ve cut someone out of my life, but I was very clear on the ‘why’ of it at the time. I would NEVER do that and not explain to the person why I was cutting them off.”

(But, while I know that is the truth, it doesn’t help me to feel any better about myself for making those choices. Plus, if you include my on-again, off-again connection with my father, then it’s not true that I’ve never cut someone off without a full explanation. No matter how much I would like to believe that I’m not “that” person, the fact is, I really AM that person. But who among us ever wants to admit that we are what we despise?)

So why am I bringing all of this up now? Because I’ve now made a decision again to cut someone off. This time, it is definitely clear WHY I did it, and this time, I’m able to keep the person’s kids in my life. In fact, I’ve been trying to help the kids get through the hurt and pain they’re experiencing as a result of the bad choices their mom has made, the same choices that have driven me to what may seem to be a drastic decision.

The problem is that the old adage, “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you” seems to be in play here.

She is my friend . . . my sister . . . and she is at the tail end of an extremely risky pregnancy, with her own life and the life of her baby at risk. And I can’t trust that she will make the right decisions, that she will care for herself the way she ought to.

But I can’t stand by and watch.

I can’t fall in love with this baby.

I can’t be around this man who has done NOTHING to earn the title “daddy”.

I need her to know that this is NOT okay. and while I despise “toughlove” techniques and anything behavioral, I don’t know any other way to get the message across to her. I had made it clear to her (before I knew that there was a baby involved) that I would NOT be around if he came back into the picture. I am standing by my word . . . but it is very, very hard to do.

I miss her.

I worry about the baby. and about her.

My heart is broken for her sons, who are acutely aware that she is choosing this man over her own children, and to be honest, my heart is broken for myself as well. That my friendship means that little to her . . .

I keep thinking “Stockholm Syndrome“, and maybe that’s what’s going on here. I know she’s scared, and feels alone. but I also know that she doesn’t value herself enough to know that she deserves so much more.

And that breaks my heart more than any of the rest of it.

I have no doubt in my mind that this was the enemy’s work . . . I’m not at all being facetious. But I’ll write it again . . . of course, it likely won’t be as good as the original, but no matter how many times I try to hit the “back” arrow or the “undo” key, it’s just not there.

(pale imitation of the original post’s greatness follows after the fold . . . )  

The last time I paid my tithe was the day that I wrote this blog entry. Looking back, I am struck by the fact that my resentment preceded my lack of action. Apparently, Jesus’ warning also works in reverse, since apparently where my heart was far too willing to go, my treasure soon followed.

I don’t see this as a matter of legalism; rather, I believe it to be an obedience issue, and a heart issue. And my heart is most certainly not what it could be these days . . .

The short version is this:

I want to be obedient in paying my tithe, and I want to obey without any strings attached . . . without it being about my own interpretation of what “salvation” and “freedom” really look like when it comes to money. I don’t want to cling to “test Me in this” as if it’s a talisman; rather, I want to be obedient out of gratitude to the God I claim to serve.

Most of all, I want my heart and mind to be completely free of the love of money and the fear of what I will eat or drink or wear, or even what I will type my blog entries on, or drive to work, or whether I’ll have a “home” by the world’s standards.

At church tomorrow, my hope and prayer is that I will open my hands, even if I have to pry them open, and pay this debt of gratitude for all that I have been given, none of which was really ever mine. I can only hope that my heart and mind will eventually follow.

I should be jumping up and down, right? “Normal” is good, right? And yet, I just have this sense that things are somehow not quite right in Mudville, and as a result, I told my doctor’s office that yes, I DO want to talk to the surgeon. El Lumpito is not very large, but neither has it gotten any smaller, and although I am struggling to discern whether this is my hypochondriasis kicking in or if it’s an intuition that I should pay attention to . . .

 Reading stuff like this makes me hopeful that I’ve made the right choice. But for those of you who are Jesus followers, I would greatly appreciate your prayers for discernment on my part, and the ability to separate out what is an actual risk from what is just my neurosis, or even better, something big and lovely trying to get itself born . . .

And it’s not enough that my call to my doctor’s office this afternoon to see if they’d received my CT scan results yet yielded a “no, we don’t have them yet”, despite the fact that the brand spankin’ new hospital where it was done claims on its website that its “new, state-of-the-art technology” enables them to share test results with lightning speed.

(or that I threw up from the contrast dye they had to inject–yes, that was ALSO on Sunday.)

But today, on top of all of this, THEY REPO’D MY TRASH CAN!

I’m out of checks (I stopped tithing in June, the first time my car broke down, and I hardly use checks otherwise) and this is one of those bills that just seems to fall by the wayside–it’s not easy to pay it online–so I just never got around to it. Not that I have the money at this point, anyway . . .

In her book Traveling Mercies, Anne Lamott talks about how a lot of things going wrong at once is viewed by some as evidence that “something big and lovely is trying to get itself born“. But she doesn’t totally buy that, and neither do I. I think that part of the problem, though, is that I do foolish things like titling my blog, “I wanna love You better whatever it takes“, not realizing that God might take me up on my offer.

Right now I just need to crawl into bed and spend some time feeling sorry for myself.