Let There Be Light

I'm fitting a few moments of "me" time into today. Into this week. Even now, my children are hovering, and I'm fighting the good Mom fight of: "I love you and I know you haven't seen me all week but I need three to ten minutes of silent alone time but I do know you're growing and won't want to share everything about your day soon so...".

I need three to ten minutes.

My life is about to drastically change. I'm closing a season of time tomorrow, and it is incredibly difficult for me. I'm looking forward to the change, but it is a painful process to let go, to say "good-bye" to tasks that feel unfinished and to people my heart cares for. I am a very personal person. So often we are encouraged to "just live life," and "it's not personal, it's business," and "don't mix in emotions." It is good advice. It is. But, I don't care what anyone says, all good things come from being personal. All good things. Cold, hard people do not unwrap positive experiences for the world. Good work ethic. Good output. Good effort. World changers. These are organized, FEELING, people.

Thank you for your business advice. But I will continue to be myself. I will continue to put my heart on my sleeve and put myself wholly into my work. It's the only way I can be. And it's the only way I can change the world.

I'd like to express my gratitude for mentors, for "shiners." Those people with wisdom who shine when all the lights go out. Steady. Grace givers. Thank you for what you do. There are so few lights, mentors, and today my heart is very heavy for that specific reason.

Can I encourage you today to be that person?

Be a light. Please. Shine. Light up the dark places of the world. Don't bring more darkness. Don't bring more gossip. Don't bring more pain.

Be wise. Be quiet. Speak with grace.

I'm nervous moving into a new job, moving into a new season. Everyone hates being new. I especially hate being new. Learning new tasks. I prefer to know everything about everything two seconds in. If you know me, you get that.

But as I go, I give myself the same advice. No matter the season or place, I will try to shine. To be personal. To light up the dark places. And maybe change my corner of the world.

We Hide Pain

Pain.

We keep it close to the chest, ya?

We hide it. We hide the things that cause us pain.

We push it down, the ocean, we stem its flow. We bury grief. Those things we cannot speak. We decide this is a private matter.

We cover it with alcohol, mind altering drugs, or we may even slap a large slice of apple pie over it like a bandage.

Today. I write a pain filled chapter. I bring out that which haunts me in the night.

This is, by far, one of the most painful experiences of my life. The ocean of grief is always fresh. It does not ebb, but always flows. My heart cannot hold the weight. Every single time I talk about it I sob like a child.

It's about labels. Do you have labels in your life? You likely label yourself. Procrastinator. Lazy. Beautiful. Hard Working. Fit. Unfit. Others label you. Freely. It's part of our society. We walk around every day weighted by labels. Most of them unpleasant. Unwelcome.

You, my faithful readers, will know about the pack, about the baggage I carry. This is in there. A very heavy piece that is really too much, too much to lug.

My greeting, and, "Welcome to New York" was a person calling the offices of child protective services and filing a claim against my family.

I will never, ever, ever forget the feeling of utter terror and helplessness that I waded through. For weeks. We often joke about it. "Oh, better no slap the hand of my toddler while we are at the grocery store or I might be reported." Uh huh. Yes, you probably will. It is the largest can of worms one can open, and your life will never be the same.

I trusted no one after that. I truly trust very few people still. I hid in my house, with my blinds and doors shut. I turned off the doorbell so that it would not ring. I put my entire family in the car before I even opened the garage door. I stopped going to church. I barely made it to and from work.

I want you to think about the kind of invasion this is. Someone that you do not know has absolute control over your future. Someone who does not know your child from Adam makes a life decision about his future. There is nothing, absolutely nothing that you can do to prevent these strangers from tearing apart your life brick by brick. They invade every space. They go to your children's school, church, doctors and dentists. They randomly visit your home.

It's complete, horrifying, terrifying, helplessness, day after long day. You wonder if you live in America or Cambodia.

But. You comply. You let them into your home. You sit across the table from them, answer their questions, but also freely tell them that their actions here today are humiliating. You let them interview your children. You wonder what on Earth will pop out of their mouth today, and how that might impact the case. You weep. And weep. And weep. Day after day, that rusty nail of time drives a gaping hole. That will never fill. Until you draw your last breath.

Because. We said this is about labels. When the State of New York rested, they believed that I was negligent as a parent. (And, yes, dear readers, I bawled for ten minutes after writing that statement. It is. Raw.)
I know they were just covering their bases. I wasn't criminally charged. I did not have to take parenting classes. But that does not matter. Not to a mother's heart. It just doesn't matter.

I hope you have had the chance to meet my sons. Because they are amazing. They are discerning, wise-beyond-their-years, tender hearted boys. I often ask God what I did to deserve such "easy" kids. We are all imperfect, and they are no exception, but the road is mostly paved with joy. I am their mother. I carried them close to my heart though the physical cost was great. I love them more than I love my own life, and I would not hesitate to lay my life down in exchange.

So this label. Aches in deep, deep places.

But what we bring out of the dark holds no sway. Shame loses its power in the light, and as it does so, healing has a chance.

There are all kinds of labels out there.

False. True. Undeserved. Deserved.

I know not what God will use, or has used, from this experience. But it has changed me for the better, so in (very) small ways I can be grateful. I don't easily apply labels to the journey of others. Your journey is your journey, not mine. I look deeper than the surface. I empathize. My role is to be a caring first responder. To care for the deep aches, to lessen the significance of labels.

Friends, may be we kind. May we be caring. May we be willing to help unpack the bag of our neighbor instead of adding to his burden.

It's so painful. This world. It's so full of pain and anguish.

Allow your pain a few minutes of air time, dear friend, let that shame slip away. Whatever it may be.

God's label for you is all that lives through eternity - loved, worthy, forgiven.

Fierce Heart Of Jelly

When I look at myself, I think I am complicated. Or, better, simple, but not explainable. I find my thoughts, approaches, opinions, are fairly uncommon.

This season of my life has been about redefining myself. It has been harsh. And raw. All the safe, soft, jelly places in my heart have had a once, twice over, meeting with a meat tenderizing tool. Time after relentless time I offer myself and my heart for consideration, and the result is less than the fairy tale ending for which I had hoped.

As a writer. Endings are my whole purpose. You put pen to paper and pour out the words of your soul ever so passionately, delicately weaving pieces of your heart into a story that ends. Just so. With perfection. With flourish. With closure. With a sense of benediction being meted, you send it on its way.

Endings are hoped for with happiness and pleasure. I ALWAYS want the guy to get the girl. I don't want anyone being eaten by the clown. I am beyond certain that the bomb did not kill my favorite character. And above all else, I do not get left behind.

Seasons are timely. They begin and end with flourish and without. I can romanticize all I want, and I will, but it is just a passage of time.

If you read some of my original postings you will see one of my most admired Broadway characters is Elphaba. She is humble, meek, caring and alongtheway becomes fierce. I want to be her.

And. Somewhere, dear readers, alongthewaywithyou, I have become her. This period in time where I have struggled the most in my life with finding interpersonal connections, with finding my trusts misplaced, with feelings of ostracization, with raw emotion coating my days, weeks and months.

This New York season. Made me Elphaba without losing what is the heart of Angela. Fierce with a pile of feelings.

I have used my influence for as much positive as I could. I encouraged. I helped. And when push came to shove I waged battle. I stood my ground. I stood for my principles. I stood for what was right. History may tell a different story. Stories are always open to individual interpretation; it is what makes the written word powerful. I'm okay with that.

I was there. I saw it from the front row. And I am satisfied that I defied gravity.

"Beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it's what's in the middle that counts."

A Little Flourish

It's been an exhausting week, dear ones, an exhausting week. So I came here to write, to once again find myself in these pages, with you, my readers.

It's late fall in New York, the beauty of letting go, has swirled and twirled through windy pathways and reached the dying target of earth. The dry, brown leaves can be smelled and heard crunching underfoot. The mornings give forth the perfect combination of cold temperatures and warm, sweet coffee. Darkness can be seen more than light, or so it seems. It is in this season that candles, scarves, soft white twinkle lights on the mantle, and blankets provide a warm, safe place to harbor. Worry not about what happens out there, dear ones, in this environment, with me, you are safe, you are loved, and we are having a quiet, comfortable conversation as old friends.

Old friends share hopes, dreams, plans, and memories.

Take a walk with me. Toward the past. Toward another season.

It's a quiet, summer night. Humidity coats the air, and the breeze does not cool the brow. I'm sitting on the edge of a grey porch, staring at a sky full of stars, swatting mercilessly at mosquitoes. It would be just perfect without the mosquitoes, but, alas, mosquitoes will always be with us. My aunt sits next to me, we are in our nightgowns, outside, which feels scandalous and somewhat delicious. She shares her mug of tea with me. I'm very excited to have what surely is a grown up beverage, and so close to bedtime. The tea, in later years, will come to define me. Plain black tea, hot, sweetened, with a swirl of milk. Perfection. Please offer it to me anytime. She is so mild and meek, my aunt. She speaks with a softness to which I am unaccustomed. I live with firmer tones and directives. She is so genuinely pleased to be in my company. MY company. I can't be more than ten. The night is closing in around us and the moon is bright in the Ohio heavens. Her words come to me, even now, across decades of time. "Angela, slow down, take your time, be gentle and graceful, a lady is always full of grace."

Grace. Gentleness. Meekness.

I remember my aunt so fondly. In my memory, these qualities defined her. I want to sit on the porch and give sage wisdom. I long to be graceful, gentle, meek. In a world full of agressive, racy, entitled, attention seekers, I want to walk quietly. I want to be a lady that my aunt would have been proud of. Classic. Poised.

It's difficult. Today. To be those things. It's difficult to be a quiet influence, because the noise of life is drowning, and the world is weighted.

As we sit in quiet comfort, with old friends, it seems possible, for a moment, that we can do anything. Our dreams are within reach. Our memories are only golden. Our tea is always made perfectly.

Late fall is magical. It's warm. It's comforting. For just this minute, I might be exactly what my aunt had hoped I would be. Gentle and graceful.

But with a hint of spiciness that gives the story of my life a little flourish.