By Grace, I Live

I haven’t written on this blog for several years and it’s interesting to re-read what I’ve written and see how my perspectives may or not have changed with maturity.

First of all, I no longer dread being alone. I’m more comfortable in my bones. I expect less of myself, as I age, and I enjoy the peace when life is quiet. Don’t get me wrong – I still enjoy my time with my hubby, my precious life partner of almost 41 years – and with other family members and friends. I just find that, I like myself (most of the time) and I enjoy my thoughts, journaling, reading, handwork and the ability to be creative.

The last couple of years have taught me many new life lessons. As a younger person, I thought people grew old and life was pretty easy for them – they just lived happily ever after. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-thirties, that I realized that wasn’t necessarily true. My parents never had a chance to grow old together. When my father-in-law died in his early 60’s due to a freak accident, I saw trauma affect a family whose members normally lived well into their 90’s. That shock, once again brought grief to the forefront of my life and it was time to deal with it.

Grief has been a constant throughout my life. In the last few years, my reaction to the grief, loss, feelings and thoughts, is what I am made of. I’ve learned about my own mental health, being diagnosed with Major Depression and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Those “terms” took time to understand and overcome my own stigma of being a depressed person. I have learned many of my reactions to life in general are the result of the trauma I experienced as a child. These lessons have actually brought freedom – free from the disappointment of others and myself, as I develop more realistic views of myself and how I react to circumstances that happen in my life.

I am experiencing grace. The undeserved acceptance of self as well as others. As a child I didn’t deserve the emotional and physical abuse from my mother and brother. The distain I held onto for years about myself and my family has less power over me, as I come to realize I did nothing wrong as a child. Familial lack of love and acceptance was not my fault. These folks just never learned the skill sets to love or manage their lives, thus leading to the extreme frustration and anger they took out on me.

This grace is a powerful tool. It brings an inner peace. Yes, there are still times when the old tapes replay in my brain and I begin to panic and live with the guilt and shame of my childhood – but the turn around time is far quicker now – and the pain teaches me valuable lessons with each episode.

I’m not whole yet, but I’m working on becoming the trusting, loving child of God, I was meant to be at the beginning of this life. And hopefully, I can pass on some of my knowledge to family members, friends and strangers who are or become a part of my life. I believe we are meant to share our stories and by doing so – receive some healing in the process. Coffee time lends itself to opening up with a safe person and learning about one another in a caring authentic manner.

I Hate Being Alone

The last 24 hours have reminded me how much I hate being alone. Strong words I know, but it’s really true for me. My husband and I have been married 37 years. That’s a long time to have a life partner and I am never more aware of that blessing than when I have to spend time all by myself.

I feel like I’m a lost soul when I’m all alone – even though I’ve claimed God’s love for me, I still get anxious, paralyzed with depression and just feel sick inside. I know it’s not healthy to feel this way, so I push myself to get out, call a friend or family member, get ‘busy’ or just do something, anything. Sometimes those things help, but the fact is I’m still alone and I don’t like it. So I’m trying to reflect here on why it is that I feel the way I do. What in my life has caused me to react this way?

Well, I think about being a little girl, who never gained confidence in myself or who I would become. From the time I can remember, my mother told me I should never have been born, she drank excessively causing neglect, starvation, an unkept environment and gave no expression of love or tenderness of any kind. My dad died when I was 8, and from then on I experienced physical beatings and was even locked out of the safety of my home.

Even with all that abuse, I sat next to my mom in the hospital when I was 15 and watched her die right before my eyes. Over that 5 day period, I rode the bus to and from the hospital by myself. Late one night a nurse told me to go home around 10 p.m. I sat on the bus all alone – I didn’t want to be there, I felt a real panic. I woke up at 5 a.m. to go back to the hospital, but at 5:30 I got a call saying my mom was dead. I felt so guilty for not being there with her during her last breaths, even though she was comatose and had no idea I was there. I waited a few hours before calling my grandmother to tell her that her daughter was dead. There was no one beside me to console me or help me through my grief, I was left all alone to figure it out and care for myself. My mother never made any plans for her death or burial. I did it with the aid of a kind Navy chaplain. I truly don’t know how I survived for those two and half months.

That was when an aunt and uncle came to get me and take me to live with them in their beautiful home. Little did I know, I would become their personal housecleaner – I was given a list of chores to complete every day before I could do my homework or go out to school or church events. I spotlessly cleaned the kitchen, bathrooms and vacuumed every day and on weekends I also washed all the windows, inside and out of their 3,000 sq. ft. home with ammonia and newspaper. I watched the world go by from their quiet pristine country club type front room, once again all alone. The losses mounted through the years, but at 23, I suffered one of my greatest losses, the terrible auto accident which left me in chronic pain with lingering health issues for the rest of my life.

I certainly haven’t experienced only loses in my life. I have been truly blessed in many ways. As a teen I came to know a precious and loving God, with a sincere acceptance of grace and mercy and a faith that has grown stronger through the decades. I am blessed to be married to an incredibly patient husband for all these years. He has been a rock of strength, love and support – and I have the most incredible children and grandchildren in the world.

In many ways, this ‘conversation’ has helped me understand why I don’t like being alone. I’ve never identified what has added to my anguish and I just pray someday I can find peace in it. I am grateful for the dear friends and family who want to and choose to be a part of my daily life. Thank you.

My Sugar-Free Vanilla Latte Version

    

That’s right – I like my coffee sweet and flavorful. Ron always wanted a black Americano – hot and robust. As I look back at our lives, our choices fit who we were – especially as we were in relation to each other.

I needed a softer life. I couldn’t have handled the rough road Ron had to trod. Although he saw a lot of America and slept out in the open – he also faced a lot of hunger, loneliness and hostility towards him and by him. It was hard for me to comprehend how he could choose this lifestyle. I later learned it was not so much a choice, but a necessity and he coped with that transient lifestyle with the best gifts he had – humor and his love of animals.

I was blessed to be able to go to college and then go to work in the medical field. I loved my work and was very good at it. It was a good time in my life. At 23, I was involved in a horrible car accident. I flew out of a VW bug (hard to believe there were no seat belts in a ’66 bug) and I ended up underneath the vehicle. My right femur (upper thigh bone) broke through the hip socket leaving my pelvis broken into multiple pieces. I spent 10 long lonely weeks in traction only to face the first of what would become 4 total hip replacements (so far) – a few months later. The gifts I learned during this time were patience and prayer.

Ron had no idea I had to go through this accident or the resulting surgeries. I had no idea of his travels and whether he was alive or not. Our paths only crossed occasionally for 20 years or so. Those times were precious and I’m grateful for them – but they were often spent in frustration with each other. Ron, wanting my husband and I to take care of him. Me, still wanting him to ‘be normal’, get a job and settle down. We didn’t heal our frustrations until years later.

Sometimes, the kindness of strangers can be more helpful to us than that of family members. Ron was blessed to have people come into his life and walk beside him for short periods. One such time, an angel helped him process his Social Security Disability claim when he was in his late-40’s. As most of us know, it’s a lengthy process, needing documentation from the healthcare system, of which he didn’t have any care or coverage. I learned long afterwards, in our coffee side chats, he had epileptic seizures during this time in Iowa, and a neighbor helped him get the medical assistance he needed. Ron began taking medication under the watchful eye of his dedicated healthcare providers, whom he became quite fond of. For the first time in his adult life he got the attention he so badly wanted, a steady income, and had a ‘roof over his head’. He still moved around the country a bit, but I believe he came back to Portland to be around me and my family*. Family fills a need deep within us. I’m thankful Ron and I had each other to lean on at this important time in our lives.

At first our coffee house chats were filled with awkward moments. Ron was a smoker, I am not – but weather permitting, we sat outside where the smoke could drift away from me and he could pet the dogs as they walked by. It became a win-win for both of us. As the days turned into years, we learned more and more about each other. I began to enjoy his repeated silly jokes and could reflect back to him, the pride I saw in him remembering dates and events – a gift I have never had. I think he appreciated my devotion, friendship and laughter. I am a better person for the time we got to spend with each other.

[* My daughter reminded me – that Ron not only wanted to be around me, but our family too. He loved tickling her and she remembers the delightful laughter she experienced when around him.]

                                                  

By the way, I still choose Sugar-Free Vanilla Latte’s because I need that little sweetness to continue my story. Thanks for taking the time to come by and read my memory today. It means a lot to me.

That Damn Kid!

I asked myself over and again for the first 32 years of my life – WHY? What did I do that was so bad that my mom had to hit me with a broom and pull out my hair time and again? Why was I such a horrible kid?

Brought up in a Naval family, I knew it was critical I ‘tow the line’. My mom wasn’t clear in giving directions, but one thing I knew, was I HAD to be home by 5:00 p.m. for supper, NO later, and hopefully a couple of minutes early, so I could just wait outside until she would let me in to wash my hands and face. In those days kids played outside with their friends (when they weren’t in ballet classes).

My two best friends were cared for by either their grandparents or an older sister. They paid no attention to all the kids around their home, and certainly did not tell me when it was getting close to 5:00. I had to ask my friends to go inside and find out what time it was – which distracted their playtime and they didn’t want to do it.

IF I came home after 5:00 pm – I was wacked and slapped and screamed at for being ‘a stupid idiot’. I suppose I was like most kids today – a bit sassy? I remember feeling like I didn’t KNOW what time it was and I shouldn’t be punished for it. IF I said anything, it got so much worse. I got my hair pulled out and ended up with bruises all over my body. I wore my ballet tights to school under my dresses, so teachers and kids couldn’t see the bruises or make fun of me. It was San Diego, where the weather was warm all the time and there was no need to wear tights. I remember one teacher asking why I had patches of blood in my hair – I didn’t answer but thought, maybe I can find a headband to help cover the patches next time.

My mother was small – 4’11”. I was taller than her before I knew it. I imagine it may have been intimidating to have both your children bigger than you when you were in your late 40’s, near 50. My brother, Ron, never got into trouble with her. He was never beaten. He would be teasing and sassy to me – but never to her. I guess I just never learned to respect her the way she so desperately needed for me to do after my dad died. I don’t really know – it just seemed she hated me with a vengeance and I never understood why.

I tried running away from home, but I never had anywhere to go, so I came back. We didn’t have any family in the area (that I knew of). In actuality I learned decades later, my older cousin along with his wife and their 6 kids lived within a mile or so from us, but my mother was such a hermit, she never let me know of them. Child Services was not as prevalent in family lives in those days, otherwise I’m confident I would have been in the court system shortly after my father’s death. Ron, although an adult, lived on and off with my mom and me. He too joined her in drinking on a daily basis. They made fun of me and laughed at my expense – and when it made me mad, Ron would hold me while my mom beat me with the broom. I thought I could get away from them by hiding under the bed. It only trapped me in a small space where the hits where more concentrated on my legs. I remember thinking a couple of times, I had a broken leg because it hurt so bad, but after being screamed at to get out from under the bed, I was able to get up and hobble out of the house, and “lick my wounds” outside in the yard where I often fell asleep.I would never tell my friends about the beatings. They didn’t have anyone that hurt them like I did. I decided, I was just plain bad – and I deserved everything I got.

I now understand as a parent and grandparent how frustrating a sassy child can be, one who doesn’t listen or obey what you ask of them. But it’s ‘YOUR JOB’ as a parent to teach children, not hurt them. My mother never learned the skills to teach – she only hurt, me. I believe she took her shame out on me. She died of alcoholism at 52, when I was 15 years old. I was never able to ask her the many questions I have had throughout my life.

Kids are a precious gift. I always wanted a family of my very own. It is my philosophy, that children deserve to have someone wake them up each morning with a cheerful hug and kisses; they deserve to have clean clothes to wear; to have food in their bellies, and most of all to have LOVE in their families [as children’s song artist, Raffi sings].

My earliest memories are of my dad, playing with me outside in the yard, of sitting on his lap and feeling his scratchy whiskery face next to mine, feeling him squish me with his bear hugs and kisses. After his death, my life changed dramatically. At age 8, I made breakfast for myself or didn’t eat at all. I washed my own clothes by hand and hung them outside to dry and often cried myself to sleep. I never had my own bedroom until I went to live with an aunt and uncle after my mom died. There too I cried myself asleep, as I have done much of my life.

Through the years, I put messages inside my head, that I wasn’t worthy of love. I was bad and that’s why God took my daddy away from me. I was even SO bad, He took my mom away. Whenever there was strife in my marriage, it was because I wasn’t a good enough wife. I figured I wasn’t very smart because I have been told I was wrong so often. I’ve had a lot of confusion within me, because I do believe I’m smart and capable – it’s just others can’t seem to see it – and I just don’t understand WHY?

In my early 30’s I called an aunt to ask questions about my family that had come up in counseling. I learned about Ron’s brain damage from my mother’s neglect. I learned that my father was a gambler and he lost our home within a year after retiring from the Navy. I learned my mother had been an alcoholic from the time she was 17 years old. My aunt was honest with me about my family. I appreciated the information. It finally made sense to me and empowered me to change the messages that were stuck in my head about being unworthy. I found my voice – but it hasn’t been easy, pleasant or graceful. I would have preferred to go through many of the transitions in my life with more tact and gentleness – but I didn’t know how. I am thankful God brought me through the darkest of times when I didn’t want to live anymore. My family is so precious to me.

I have two really great adult kids and a precious son-in-law, who love me. I have two terrific grandkids who adore me. I have a caring and gentle husband who has stood by me through all the difficult times. And God in His great mercies, has brought me through this life with great strength and has put a lot of love in my heart.

Wow, what a sobering coffeehouse story but that happens sometimes, if we’re lucky. Ron and I were able to talk about the child abuse. He said he didn’t remember it. I told him I wasn’t surprised because he was drunk. He apologized to me and said he was really sorry. He never meant to hurt me. He grew to know that he and alcohol didn’t mix well and he told me he had been sober for close to 10 years by then (more or less). i was really proud that he could overcome something my mom never could. I appreciate that we were able to have time to talk through the things we remembered. I love that he could voice his intent. It deepened our love for each other and healed places within each of our hearts.

It’s Not Just A LABEL

It’s part of our nature to use labels to identify ourselves and others. They can be useful  allowing us to introduce ourselves to someone new – giving them an idea of who we are. I am a child of Elmer and Cleo, the sister of Ron, the wife of Grant, a mother to Alex and Roxanne, a follower of Christ, an Oregonian, an American, an artist.

People may define me as to how they experience my nature – she is: sensitive, good-natured, caring, compassionate, frustrating, angry, silly or whatever. At times I am all of these and so much more.

We can also be labeled by our outside appearance – she is: elderly, short, walks with a cane, is wearing the yellow jacket, pink shoes, is carrying a big red purse, or what have you.

HOWEVER when the labels attack our identity, our nature, our appearance – they become hurtful and cruel. Ron experienced being labeled nearly every day of his life. The one I recall the most from my childhood was that people called him “retarded”. It was obvious to the general public he had some type of mental challenge as his speech pattern and thinking processes were slow when he interacted with people. I can only imagine what it felt like to be labeled as such, but I never asked him. I know it made him feel bad and didn’t build self-esteem or confidence in his abilities. (I’m glad there’s a movement now to end using this term.) On the contrary, I was labeled as “smart”, which made me feel happy and proud but I always recognized the difference between Ron and me. Even with 10 years difference in our ages, I was always confused as to how I should respond to those who “labeled” us differently. It hurt me too and I knew it wasn’t fair.

    

Our mom and dad treated Ron and me differently as well – not necessarily labeling us but certainly by expressing their love. My mom treated my brother like he was the favorite child. She laughed at him, gave him a lot of attention and shared her love. I knew she adored him. My dad on the other hand treated Ron like he was a huge disappointment. He was ashamed of Ron’s slowness and inability to understand and do things in a quick manner. I remember him telling Ron to hurry up, get it right this time or other words which reflected his frustration and impatience. I rather doubt my father knew my mother starved Ron until he went into convulsions and resulted in permanent brain-damage. It wasn’t something people talked about out in the open. My dad died when Ron was 18 and I was 8. He had retired from the Navy just a couple of years before his death at 54 years old. Ron never felt loved or accepted by my dad. He had a tremendous amount of anger about this all of his adult life. It has made me sad knowing Ron missed this essential element in a parent/child relationship. He deserved so much more.

With the shoe on the other foot, my mom told me I was a mistake and should never have been born. She was hospitalized for two months before I was born, due to her excessive drinking and she resented me for this. My grandmother (her mom) stayed with us for my entire first year of life – because she was so worried that I would fail-to-thrive. My dad, who was on ship duty all of his naval career was rarely in port or around our house. He retired when I was 5 years old, so I had a total of almost three years with him. I knew my dad adored me – I knew this to the core of my being. So while my mom could never say she loved me (even on her death bed, when I was 15), my dad doted on me in every way he could.

What a dichotomy between two children – and how unfortunate for both of us. Each of us wanted the love of both parents and neither of us got it. We never felt good enough to be loved for who we were. As adults we talked about this. Ron struggled with this to the day he died. I have found peace with it. Having children of my own, I couldn’t imagine not loving a child you gave birth to. I felt sorry that my mom, because of her disease and the guilt she felt over causing my brother harm, could not love me. She missed knowing a pretty remarkable person.

Shame, guilt and depression are paralyzing in how they affect our lives. Ron was able to address his understanding of these factors through his faith in God and his limited ability to comprehend God’s unconditional love. I believe parental love can affect our faith and our ability to understand the saving grace with which God offers His love and forgiveness. Ron could relate to the Old Testament image of a punishing God – but he just couldn’t reconcile his understanding a loving triune God: God the father, God the son and God the holy spirit – since he never experienced a father’s love and pride. I have no doubt Ron understands the power of God’s love now that he is in heaven.

I am grateful our parents chose to baptize Ron and me as infants. God has held onto each of us with all of His might, every day of our lives. It was on bended knee, when I fought to the core of my being to understand why my mom was unable to declare her love for me. Fortunately I was able to grasp the depth God loved me and that He wanted me to BE, even though she couldn’t. He would go to the ends of the earth for me and he wasn’t going to allow me to fall into the paralyzing grip of depression forever. He would set my heart free – to love, to care and to act upon the saving grace that was mine to share with my family and others.

Our coffeehouse story is one of forgiveness – the healing, amazing kind of grace story that is real. I thank God that our journeys however different they were, ended up at the same place, sharing our love for one another over a cup of coffee. But alas, they truly haven’t ended there – for we will be together for all of eternity.

Eternal life is a promise given new to us each day. Through the grace of our glorious Lord Jesus Christ – may you understand that He wants you as desperately as He wanted me and Ron. You only have to ask – He has done all the rest for you.

What A Cornball!

My grandson is 5 years old and we spend a good amount of time together. He is just learning to tell the silliest of silly jokes and then laughs and laughs at himself. You can’t help but laugh with him – it’s pure silliness in it’s best form. For a person with chronic illnesses, it makes life better when I can laugh. Thank you dear heart for being in my life.

         

“Imagination is given to a man to compensate for what he is not. A sense of humor is given to console him for what he is.” 

Francis Bacon

         

My husband and I have bought a piece of property at the beach where we plan to retire in a few short years. We spend weekends and vacation time working over there. Our next door neighbor is a 72 year old fellow who of course, is quite interested to see what is going on, as the property has sat au’naturel for the entire time he has lived in his home. He has an odd sense of humor and time and again, he reminds me so much of my brother. He’ll say something and he doesn’t think I’ll ‘get it’. I laugh and smirk, because I’m so use to this style of humor and he wonders why I understand him so well.

It’s really very endearing to think, that after all these years, (my brother died a little over 12 years ago now) God put me in a place where my new next door neighbor brings laughter and joy into my life, much as my brother did.

Let’s take a little ‘for instance’ here. My brother, Ron, liked “Hee Haw” – a goofy1960’s farm life comedy tv show. Then there was’The Beverly Hillbillies’, ‘Gilligan’s Island’ and ‘Mr. Ed’. He repeated conversations from these characters over and over, and they were always spot on for details. (I was 6 or 7 at the time and it drove me crazy – I hated those silly shows and he seemed like such a cornball to me. I wanted a cool teenage brother to look up to.)

I never understood why Ron was the way he was – until I was in my mid-30’s and talked with an aunt who told me of my Mother’s neglect, starving the poor little toddler until it did permanent harm. Even though my brother had brain-damage, he was still very functional. Being the little sister, I lost most of the arguments because he remembered details so vividly. From the time he was out of high school, he held odd jobs here and there, but never stayed employed for long because of his strong opinions and he didn’t want people telling him what to do. His speech was labored and his thinking and reading were very slow. I learned later in Ron’s life, there were many life lessons he just never learned. No one took the time to teach him how to understand basic life skills like patience, compassion and forgiveness. In those last years when we went for coffee, I began to comprehend that I needed to try to share these concepts with him. It wasn’t easy as he would get extremely frustrated and angry at me. Bless his heart (which was good) he had never learned to think of anyone but himself which resulted in the lack of close and long-term relationships.

Ron remained single his entire life. Oh, I’m sure he had girlfriends he whistled at and flirted with, through the years, but it’s no surprise, he never had a family. He was a transient-street person his entire adult life until the last few years when his health failed him. He traveled across the United States many, many times, hitch-hiking or riding a Greyhound bus, if a generous person would pay for his ticket. He chose to sleep under the stars whenever possible. This type of anti-social behavior didn’t allow him to function well in homeless shelters. Only extreme inclement weather brought him inside for a few hours at a time. I affirmed Ron for seeing a lot of our beautiful country – something I have never done. And he had a deep love for animals of all kinds, so he cuddled up with stray dogs, petted the farm animals and just enjoyed all the other wildlife he ran into in the amazing countrysides of America. He was able to find the unconditional love he was missing in his life.

In our coffeehouse chats Ron generously offered his sense of humor to everyone around us. Folks would look at him like he was from Mars! He was silly, awkward, unshaven – most people considered him a bum – unkept in rat-a-tat clothing. Through the grace that overwhelmed me when I was with Ron, I learned to laugh at his silly cornball jokes from yester’year. The shame and embarrassment I experienced well into my adult years grew into sincere admiration for him. He lived a life where he overcame severe neglect, abuse and humiliation. His sense of humor was a tool God gave him to console a broken heart and help him survive a very cruel world, one which would break most of us.

I praise God for giving Ron and me the time to sip coffee and appreciate the blessing of healing between us. He was my brother and I let everyone know how much he meant to me – as I assisted him to walk, hugged him tenderly and laughed at his silly quirky personality. He was my brother and I was proud of him. I loved him dearly.

         

Intro to Coffeehouse Conversations

For the last few years of my brother’s life, we were able to go to local coffee shops and spend time talking. In those hours we began to tell our tales and reflect upon our real life stories.

We were children of an alcoholic mother and an “at sea” naval officer father. Unfortunately for my brother, Ron, our mother’s drinking caused him irreversible brain damage at age three. Fortunately for me, Ron was 10 years older than me, and by then he had learned to make peanut butter sandwiches under the watchful eye of our Grandmother. After my first birthday, it was those very sandwiches which saved me from life-altering parental neglect.

My brother and I stayed connected through the years which truly was a miracle in and of itself. We developed a tremendous devotion to each other that offered us a deep reverence for life. It wasn’t an easy journey for us – but then many familial relationships are difficult. We were blessed by the grace of God, to find healing before Ron died.

I’m so grateful for our time together, so I dedicate this blog to the lessons I learned from my brother.