Wasting Away in Blackberries

The old farm where I grew up is in the process of being destroyed organically. My dad sold it thirty-plus years ago and since then, it has become unrecognizable. Blackberry vines surround every structure and wherever there’s an opening the vines have snaked inside, digging in their thorns and pulling down roofs and decimating walls. Little of the barn buildings can be seen and I expect by next year blackberry vines will fully encase the house. Who knows why the present owner has allowed this destruction but it hurts my heart to see this once beautiful piece of property looking like Sleeping Beauty’s castle before the prince came to rescue her.

Renovating isn’t even at option at this point. If ever I were able to buy back this land, we would have to bring in a bulldozer and completely level it before we could restore it. 

A writing exercise sent me to this verse: “The LORD determined to tear down the wall around the Daughter of Zion. He stretched out a measuring line and did not withhold his hand from destroying. He made ramparts and walls lament; together they wasted away.” (Lamentations 2:8 NLT) As sad as it looks and for various reasons according to further study, God made the choice to let Israel, the Daughter of Zion, be destroyed. Whether it was with blackberry vines or some other vegetation, or at the hands of sword-wielding warriors, the end came. He still has a plan for full restoration that He is working on. He has measured it all out and knows exactly how far things must go. Clearly grieving over loss is an expected part of the process. 

I grieve over losing things, from certain places I enjoyed living in, to those I love making less than best choices or at least, contrary to my beliefs, to friendships that soured and died, to my own youthfulness passing by. I look around to see where God put His measuring line in hopes the mark He placed for the boundary is in sight. Knowing that God uses a measuring tape reassures me that there will come a time of restoration. When I understand that tearing down a city allows a new one to be built, hope surges up and the pain in my heart ebbs. 

Earthquake-proof the Dentist Office

Where do you feel most vulnerable?

I think I have to say for me, it’s when I’m in the chair. Where dental procedures are performed. Where my personal space is invaded. Where pain is involved. Where my airways seem to be impeded. That chair. Compared to other circumstances I’ve faced, say, being in stirrups, (and I’ve given birth three times and each time was by a different method so I can honestly speak to a variety of vulnerable positions), dental procedures evoke a very extreme level of anxiety. The level that makes dentists wish they’d earthquake-proofed their office, such are the tremors that emanate from my body and encompass the chair I’m occupying. I’m not exaggerating.

A couple weeks ago a convergence of increasing pain in my mouth and available funds sent me to the chair. Since we moved last year, I had to find a new dentist. Add another level to the anxiety meter. So at the first appointment, which was for exam and x-rays only, I put it right there on the forms I filled out. About being extremely anxious in the chair and how I would be taking an anti-anxiety medication to get through whatever procedures needed to be done.

I felt hopeful with how the young lady at the counter greeted me and helped me with insurance paper work and forms. And her interest in me as a person came through very clearly.

When my new dentist entered the room, I so appreciated that he kept his distance as we first talked, and that he listened. He asked me from where I thought the anxiety stemmed. He didn’t interrupt as I listed a myriad of circumstances involving dental horrors in my childhood. Topping the list was my first visit at age twelve, a tooth that my parents refused a root canal on, insisting that I would lose all my teeth by the time I was twenty-one anyway so just go ahead and pull it, leaving me there alone because they had things to do, me sobbing with terror, the dentist pulling the tooth and dropping it down my throat, which I gagged and choked on but eventually coughed out, the dentist yelling at me and telling me it was my fault that he dropped it. Yeah, it was pretty traumatic. Other things on the list were fillings done without anesthesia, and being told what a baby I was for complaining about the pain because there are so many other things way more painful.

I’ve had a number of root canals, crowns, tooth extractions and deep cleanings since then that didn’t qualify for horror movie ratings but the initial incidents are ingrained and affect every single new encounter.

My new dentist listened to it all. And then he affirmed me. He said what I’d experienced was horrible and it shouldn’t have been done that way. The next thing he said was so unexpected I still almost can’t quite believe I heard my ears right. Basically he said, “There’s nothing I can do to go back and change what happened. But what I can do right now is apologize for the way those dentists practiced and for what they did to you. I’m saying I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

Really?!? Yes, really. I’m still processing what that means. And I am working through that forgiveness.

Yesterday was my appointment for the root canal. I took my little Lorazepam to take the edge off my anxiety. My sister became my TLC giver and chauffeur. She even offered to hang out in the tiny waiting room. I couldn’t do that to her. Just knowing she was close by at The Woods Coffee Shop was enough for me.

I still felt vulnerable in the chair. I still felt that my personal space was invaded. And hey, when the dentist said, “You’ll feel a little pinch now” as the needle was inserted into my locally anesthetized gum, I felt it. A few tears leaked out. And my body felt jerky (thankfully no tremors this time). But I also felt respected and heard. I felt the kindness, the care, the concern for my welfare, and the peace and presence of Jesus that friends and family were praying for.

I like what a favorite author of mine Steve Arterburn says in his book, Toxic Faith, “The true presence of God in my life does not provide escape from reality and personal responsibility. His presence should provide a firmer grip on reality and a hope that reality can be faced with all its pain and sorrow.”

The dentist also said he’d like to get to a place where I feel I can trust him. I’d like that too. It will take time. But what a relief it would be to approach the chair without a tremble, as there are more procedures ahead.

No Bump in the Road

I don’t own a lot of CDs. But there is one I’ve had for a dozen years. Listening to it has helped me encourage myself, especially after a time of betrayal. It’s called “The Mercy Project.” A favorite song on it, sung by Martina McBride, is called “You’ll Get Through This.” The chorus says,

“You’ll get through this, you’ll break new ground.

When you’re lost within your weakness, hope is waiting to be found.

You’ll get through this, no matter what it takes.

I believe in you for heaven’s sake.

You’ll get through this.”

It irks me when I hear someone say “just get over” it. I don’t believe we “get over” being betrayed by someone we trusted. Okay, I don’t think I will “get over” being betrayed by someone I trusted. To me “getting over” something is like saying it was merely a bump in the road, no big deal. Uh uh! Betrayal is no bump in the road.

So this song is a favorite because I have discovered that I’ve been getting through it. It’s like digging a tunnel through a mountain to find what my part was in it, as I forgive and keep forgiving the person. I think I’ve broken through a lot of new ground looking at and acknowledging my own part in it, confessing my sin to God and others, accepting forgiveness, uncovering deeper roots—the lies I believed about myself—that set me up for the situation and dealing with those, healing. I can think about the situation now and talk about it and the pain is no longer there. I remember the pain and can empathize with others when they experience it but I’m not staring out my window anymore feeling bereft.  

At a women’s gathering earlier this year I heard a speaker said, “You don’t have to clean up the mess someone else made.” Wow! What a concept. It’s their mess and they didn’t make the mess in my house. They made it in theirs. No need for me to step over it. I’ll be right here getting through my own mess.

What are the messes you’re getting through?

Am I a Pain?

One of my favorite authors, Jane Kirkpatrick, writes about “focus” in her Kinship and Courage Series novels. She uses it to describe more than clarity, looking at the Latin root meaning “hearth”, that which warms a person to the center of their being.

I like thinking about that in terms of God, how He is my focus. Not just helping me see more clearly, but to feel more clearly. His warmth comforts and energizes. Food prepared at the hearth fire nourishes. He feeds me.

Even with that comfort, pain is a constant. Somewhere I saw a quote indicating that the pain in the past lessens when we face forward. I’m not sure that’s true. Why is it, anyway, that we want the people around us to be pain free? Maybe pain is a constant, never-ending reality in this life. And our desire for the absence of pain in others is to avoid admitting our powerlessness in eradicating it.

According to Genesis there’s no maybe about it. God told Adam he’d have pain all his life. Maybe we’re not supposed to seek the absence of pain. Maybe we’re supposed to continue on in the pain. Maybe the triumph is in persevering in spite of the pain. Physical, emotional, spiritual, mental, whatever and wherever the pain, or the cause. Accept the pain instead of trying to escape it.

But I’m not to let pain define me. I am not this painful shoulder that wakes me in the night. Or the fingers that allow me to drop things. Or the wounded heart that pangs with memories. They belong to me, but I don’t belong to them. They might restrict my movements but I don’t have to let them restrict my attitudes or let them be an excuse to hurt the people around me.

In the midst of my greatest difficulties, my belief in God develops. That’s where my faith really begins—in my pain and anxiety and angst. I found this verse one day when I was wondering if my pains were from a lack of faith. “I believed in you, so I said, “I am deeply troubled, Lord.” (Psalm 116:10, NLT) It is because I believe in Him that I can tell Him about my struggles.

Pain will have an end, to be sure. God’s going to handle that. “He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.” (Revelations 21:3-5, NLT) Well, hurray for that! Makes me want to put on my red hat and do the happy dance!

Beginning of the Shining (not to be confused with the movie of the same name)

Although this is not my first blog post, I feel like I’m groping around in the dark. What kind of luminary is that? LOL! Okay, so my first two posts were just about learning to blog—they still count. My groping now is about where to start with the light shining thing. At the beginning? Well, there’s an illuminating thought. And wouldn’t you know, I was asked recently to share something about my beginnings—with a group of friends in a book discussion club. They expressed they found it inspiring so I’m thinking this blog is a good place to share it as well. You’ll get to know a little bit about what makes me tick and I’ll have gotten one more blog post under my belt. Woohoo!

So here’s what I shared:

As some of you may know I express myself best through writing. Plus I can spare you the rabbit trails I’d take you on, and make sure I get to my point, if I stick to reading it. Hopefully you won’t mind.

As soon as I got the email from Kerry, my mind immediately went into gear, wondering what to share, how much, what aspect, etc and my heart prayer was for God’s direction. A story I wrote about my childhood for faithwriters.com in 2009 entitled Accidents Are Not Born came to mind. Within a few minutes of letting Kerry know that I was willing to share, she wrote back with the words, “Praise God from whom ALL blessings flow…you are one!” That confirmed for me God’s direction to share from that part of my life.

By the way, I didn’t start reading One Thousand Gifts until after I’d finished writing out what I’m going to share with you today. But once I started reading it, I felt confirmation there as well.

One might think, “A dairy farm, what a safe and pleasant place to grow up in.” That, I’m here to tell you, is a somewhat naïve illusion. Rural living, yes, can be pleasant but it can also be dangerous. I will tell you about a few, but not all, of the accidental injuries in my life that occurred down on our farm in the Pacific Northwest.

When I was born in 1953 I joined two brothers and one sister. My brothers, Larry and David, were six and five years old. My sister Debby, a beautiful blue-eyed blonde with naturally curly hair, was eleven months and about three weeks older than me so we spent ten days each year being the same age. But only for three years. She passed away in 1956 just a month after her 4^th birthday. That’s a whole ‘nother story I won’t go into today.

To just briefly round out the family history, my precious sister Robyn came along when I was five years old and the tag-along brother Brian arrived when I was almost fourteen.

Now the first dangerous incident I’ll tell you about might not meet the definition of an outright accident. It involved my oldest brother who experienced oxygen deprivation during birth which led to brain damage. His mental ability was too impaired to know right from wrong and likely his action in this wasn’t intentional—thus an accident.

Every summer my father baled hay in meadows through which an icy creek meandered straight from the Cascade Mountains. To cool off from the sweatiness of loading hay onto the wagons, also known as ‘bucking bales’, Dad and my brothers and the crew of local farm boys often took a dip in the creek. Someone decided damming the stream at a wide spot where the banks were high would create a swimmin’ hole worth diving into. That engineering feat accomplished, much refreshment ensued.

Enter Mother with picnic lunch for the workers, accompanied by five-year-old me—a little girl afraid of water and with an introverted temperament, easily overwhelmed by a busy environment. When it was time to go home, I found myself on the far side of the creek—I do not remember how I got there but the creek was just a trickle in some places so maybe I waded across. Perhaps the late afternoon shadows on the water now freaked me out. In any case, whining for help went unheeded except by my aforementioned brother.

Instead of carrying me across though, he threw me into the swimmin’ hole, now about nine feet deep. I swam like a rock. My short life passed before me. Hell’s fiery flames flicked at the soles of my feet, or so I thought. It was only dead leaves from the branches used in the dam, which could’ve snagged and held me captive. One of those local farm boys dove in and saved me—my first hero. I still remember his name—Les McDowell.

Danger zone ahead: the kitchen.

My chore as an eight-year old was putting dishes from the drain rack into the cupboard. To reach the higher shelves I used a chair to climb up and sit on the counter.

Our old farmhouse kitchen’s metal cupboards had one below-counter door that never latched properly. As I dismounted from the counter rather than using the chair one particular morning, the sharp corner of that slightly open door caught at the back of my knee and dug in. I’m sorry to be so graphic but I thought the sound I heard was my dress ripping.

Thirty stitches, and fifty years later, a wide scar due to ‘proud flesh’ sews a seam from back-of-knee to bottom-of-rump and gives testimony to the fragility of skin.

At age nine I decided to try performing a gymnastics routine. We didn’t have TV so I must have seen this at a friend’s house and no one said, “Don’t try this at home.” So I attempted it with my non-athletic body. On a mattress. Trying to flip. Using my head as landing gear.

Not having that tended to properly at the time, I’m grateful to have feeling in my arms and legs but I’ve dealt constantly with pain. I know I am very fortunate in not having broken my neck.

Getting the wind knocked out of me—a recurring theme.

Jumping off stacks of baled hay in the barn into piled-up loose hay was great fun. After many jumps it got pretty packed but not so solid that landing on your feet was of any consequence. My dad suggested doing a ‘preacher’s seat’. He explained, “That’s when you stick your legs straight out in front of you and land on your rump.”

I tried it. I thought my breath had died and gone to heaven. Walking was difficult for several weeks. As was sitting, standing, lying down, turning over, and just about every position known to my body.

Again not attended to properly, my tailbone and surrounding muscles remember the injury and take the time and trouble of reminding me daily.

Another breath-taking incident occurred when my brothers wanted me to learn baseball. Instead of a wooden bat they swung a heavy metal pipe. I shudder to think how much worse this could’ve been considering what I’ve seen on the Discovery Health channel. In my case, the pipe flailed the air in my brother’s hands and connected with my mid-section. It is a most awful sensation to be unable to get air in or out, which I also experienced the time I walked behind a cow and she kicked me in the stomach and sent me flying. Crazy, isn’t it?

All of the incidents I’ve mentioned happened in the first ten years of my life. At the age of ten, I realized how close to eternity I had come on many occasions and who knew how many more might be in my future and which one might usher me into it. My little soul responded in a personal way to the gospel message I’d heard since birth. I confessed to being a sinner, needing God’s forgiveness, and I invited Jesus into my heart as my personal savior and Lord. I trusted that according to Romans 5:1, I could now say of my eternal destiny “therefore being justified by faith I have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

But for years I pondered something my mother let slip, that Anita’s birth was an ‘accident.’ There was also an impression made on my mind that with Debby’s death, it was the wrong daughter who died. Other things happened as the years went by, including molestation, that seemed to confirm that to me. I stuffed all those confused, hurt and angry feelings that were woven into the fabric of my being, and pretended I was okay. Until in my late thirties, depression and suicidal thoughts took me down.

Thank God for good professional Christian therapists. Through counseling, support groups and prayer, I finally discovered this spiritual truth in a way that I could apply to myself. Yes, life has accidents but as a wonderful surprise planned by God, I am not one of them. I love what the Psalmist says.
“You saw me before I was born.
      Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
   Every moment was laid out
      before a single day had passed.

How precious are your thoughts about me, O God.
      They cannot be numbered!
I can’t even count them;
      they outnumber the grains of sand!” (Psalm 139:16-18a, NLT)

As with the physical pain, I confess I still struggle at times with the emotional pain of feeling unwanted, but God wants me to trust Him even through that. Pain and brokenness remind me that I need Him. Another passage in Psalms that resonates with me says, “My health may fail, and my spirit grow weak, but God remains the strength of my heart; he is mine forever.” Henri Nouwen, in his book Becoming the Beloved, encourages me with this: “The most-celebrated musical composition, the most-noted painting and sculpture, and the most-read books are often direct expressions of the human awareness of brokenness.”

And in preserving me from injury to the point of death, I see God had a plan and purpose for my life. Sometimes His purpose has brought me front and center, sometimes into the background. To God be the glory.