Wanted or Needed?

Today is my (our) 16th wedding anniversary.  Sweet 16!  Is somebody going to surprise us with a new car?!   Great, if you plan to make the payments.  If not, we're good with what we've got.   Thank you, though.

I'm grateful for a reason to celebrate today, as my heart is heavy after attending the funeral of a long- time friend and man I loved yesterday.  His wife is one of my dearest friends and one of the strongest people I know.  During the service, she got up to speak after I sang their wedding song.  I marvel at what she is made out of.

So, recognizing the profound loss of a spouse, and knowing many who are living with that reality, I am trying to feel celebratory because years of marriage don't come easy.

In marriage, there are things you have to "agree to disagree" on.  We have some, and they are pretty big things.

Like Need vs. Want, for example.

Early in our marriage, we lived in the country and I stayed home with our two boys who were less than a year apart.  My days were long and I couldn't wait until my husband got home.  On a bad day, even five extra minutes to change a lightbulb after work could send me into a tailspin.

It was probably after one of those days that I expressed my concern to my husband.  "I need you more than you need me."   He said that I was right.  He didn't need me.  He wanted me.  And that was better.

I think I'm still recovering.  But, over the years, I've considered and even defended his position.  I know that it is difficult to love when need is great, and even more so, when what you have to offer is never enough.  Who has energy left over to feel and/or be loving when you're wiped out from meeting demands?  I get it.

I just don't think need and want can be so easily separated.

I believe that humans have a basic need for other human beings.  We all know about the horrific studies of the children who had food and drink, but died without human touch. We need to love and be loved.  To see and be seen.  To understand and be understood.  We are interdependent.  My entire life has bathed in and revolved around this need, and I'm guessing yours has, too.

So, I have a hard time believing my marriage is the exception.  The place where need is cast out or transcended, and we've arrived at the more esteemed place - desire. 

But, if you define need as "necessary for survival", my husband is right.  He doesn't need me.  Unless we are talking about a child in its mother's womb, one person does not need another person to survive.  Even caretakers providing life-sustaining care can be replaced by others with the same skill set.

It is halting for me to consider the possibility that while we do have need of other human beings, we don't actually have a need for a particular one.  I value relationship above all else and it feels like a betrayal to even write such a thing.

But, desire is a different thing altogether.

My husband defends this with everything that is in him.  We need water to survive, but it is our beverage of choice that we enjoy.  We have closets full of clothes that make it acceptable for us to be in society and to keep us warm, but we have our favorite sweatshirt.  He is my Pepsi and I am his camoflage pullover.

I am resistant and moved at the same time.  And so it goes.

This morning, I spent an hour ironing one shirt.  I might even have tried to touch it up after the boy put it on (it wasn't that hot and he was wearing an undershirt).  It's embarassing how pathetic I am at ironing.

I can get away with this, because my husband does it.  He was a Marine and they know how to iron.

He provides for our family, makes the coffee, teaches our boys how to shoot stuff, picks up after me (and never complains), and fixes everything.   I do most of the cooking, the bulk of the laundry, pay the bills, and take kids to doctor's appointments.

The rest of life is an ongoing negotiation.  Not like with hostages, but sort of.  Sometimes.

In sixteen years of marriage, we've learned that you can go to bed mad, and other than not sleeping well, you can still make a full recovery.  We've learned that whether we agree on who is needed or what is wanted, what gives life meaning, or what "bedtime" actually means, we can still have a lot of fun, and be glad we're doing life with someone who is so unlike our self.

Marriage must be the smallest and yet most profound celebration of "Unity in Diversity" there ever was, is, or shall be.

Happy Anniversary to us, and congratulations to all who still find a way to find a way to make it work.  To all who are missing your spouse, and wishing for nothing more than 10 more minutes or one more fight, my heart aches for you.  Thank you for the reminder that what is, will not always be.  It is good to keep that in mind.

My Trampoline Burn

I got a trampoline burn today.  This is worth noticing because you have to be on a trampoline to get a trampoline burn, and well, it's been quite a long time.  I probably would have declined the invitation to jump, as I have so many times before, but over the last couple of days, I've been wading through old photographs and videos.  Man, the videos!  We were all gathered around our tiny laptop computer in awe of days gone by.  The little bodies, the voices, the quirks, the enthusiasm, the batman masks, and spiderman costumes year round.  The kiddie pool turned gravel pit, the hours playing in the sprinkler with light sabers, cushions on the floor and jumping on the couch. 

We have lived in the same house for most of my sons' lives.  We're all the same people, but we're not.  What is more is we don't really even remember those people.  Something happened to time overnight.  We have lived so many moments up 'til now.  Some that have turned into memories jogged with a picture or video, and many more that won't.  But, they all count because they've brought us here and built what we have, although we could never fully explain or describe exactly how that happened because we've forgotten most of it.

Like this morning.  I woke up, had a cup of coffee, and made "apple biscuits" for breakfast.  The boys were thrilled, since I seldom make them and didn't tell them I was.  I got to enjoy each one coming in, figuring it out for themselves, and being the recipient of their spontaneous hugs of gratitude. 

It's sort of hard to believe I will forget these simple moments of joy, but sort of not.  They are surrounded by so many others just like them.  I read once that "there is no treaure in a pile", but in this case, it is a pile of treasure.  The word "gratitude" seems so paltry. 

Living life forward is such a gift.  It may seem like the only way to live, since it is the only way time seems to travel in real life.  But, as for so many, a time will come when the best part of our lives will be reflecting on, revisiting, and enjoying the memories we're making now. 

One day (hopefully 50 years from now), a hospice social worker is going to come to my home and write a narrative.  In a couple of paragraphs, you will know who I've loved, who I've lost, what is/was important to me in my life, and who is responsible for me now.  The remaining details of my life will be in the hearts of those I've loved, and nowhere else.  Apple biscuits and all the rest...     

So, yes, I will jump on the trampoline with you, while I still can.  And I will treasure the trampoline burn, until we all forget it ever happened. 

In Bed With a False Prophet

I have to admit something.  I've been hanging out in a dark and fearful place for a few weeks now. 

This place is one where I imagine my husband dying at a young age (just like his father who died one year from the age he is now).  Every bump, mole, scab, and pain gets a scrutinizing, suspicious, and thorough going-over from me.  There was a legitmate one recently, which mostly explains my schlepping off to this poor choice of hangouts. 

My work in hospice bereavement also provides an abundant supply of kindle, matches, and gasoline to ignite and nourish the fire of my fears.  Sometimes, my husband has to remind me that the entire world isn't on hospice.  Everything isn't a big deal.  And this always comforts me.  At least for five seconds, and sometimes more.

I've been admitting this morbid and frankly embarrassing line of thought to a few people, lately.  Collectively, they have helped me turn on the lights, once I let them in. 

It helped to know that, at one time or another, they all had similar fears of losing someone close to them, or knew someone who felt sure they were going to die young.  Equally helpful was that none of the mentioned fears or hunches have come to fruition.

Maybe you've experienced this in your own life.  You find yourself figuratively holding your breath until you pass some heartrending milestone, like when you stayed married longer than your parents, or surpassed their age when they died, or carried a child longer than before, or you eeked by or leapt over some expectation of doom you didn't even know you had. 

This morning, one of my friends said fear is a false prophet.  It didn't resonate at first, but I kept coming back to this idea and am pretty sure she nailed it.  Yes.  That's the thing.  It's difficult to argue with it logically, because it's some ugly promise about the future.  And you just don't know.  Whatever the thing is, could happen.  But, just because you're afraid of it, doesn't make it any more likely to happen... 

I jokingly told my husband that it would probably be better if I was a polygamist (reverse-polygamist, he offered).  That way, I could spread all of the love I have for him over several husbands.  Then, the thought of losing him might not feel so threatening and he could have help with the house repairs.  "Richard, it's your turn to fix the refrigerator.  I did it last time."  He laughed, told me I was weird, and then said something about men not being secure enough to tolerate that arrangement.  I think it stopped being funny when I told him to scoot over, so we could make room for the others. 

But, the truth is, that sometimes, there is another where he doesn't belong.  This other, this false prophet, is boldly proclaiming what may never be, wildly waving his hands for credence, and convincing us that whatever is loud is true.

Thankfully, once seen and named, his gig is up.  So, clear the way, false prophet.  You cannot be trusted.  (And, have you looked in a mirror, lately?  You might want to comb your hair.)
 
 

     

Thanking the Virtual Bus Driver - A Little Fortnite Reflection

I overheard one of my sons tell his brother, "You need to thank the bus driver!" in a brotherly, motherly, bossy sort of way.  The brother retorted that he always says that and how annoying it is.  I was intrigued, because this taken-for-granted bus driver, is a virtual bus driver that you never see, "driving" a flying bus over an island where people jump out or get kicked off at the last stop, to outrun a storm, build unthinkable shelters, collect guns, shields, and potions from treasure chests that emit a sound apparently only kids can hear, all to help your friends and kill your enemies, driven by lust for Victory Royale - the moniker for bragging rights, which belong to the last man standing.

Welcome to the widely-discussed, highly-addictive, continually-evolving, and infamous video game called Fortnite.  Sadly, I didn't have to do any research to write the above paragraph.  I have three sons.  We have one TV.  They all get their turn(s), and that makes me an expert by association and location (depending on where I decide to sit).  Oh, to be a paid professional in the taking-turns-business!

There are lots of ways to mitigate this, but the most fun is ridiculously hoping that they'll just get tired of it and go old school.  Resort to playing marbles, jacks, or Red Rover, Red Rover, send those three boys right over.  But, no.  The geniuses of Fortnite make some magical and highly-anticipated changes to the game every week.  Tuesday, if you really want to know.

When it comes to my boys, video games are both my friend and enemy, which makes them exactly like every other bit of technology in my life.  As with most things, I think moderation is the key, but unfortunately, most of us are bad at it.  Perhaps a discussion for another day?

If you don't mind, I'd like to get back to the bus driver...One son is demanding that another thank the bus driver.  The third one listens, but doesn't chime in.  Later, one of them had the opportunity to revive a teammate and he didn't do it.  His brothers were incensed, as was I when I learned how easy it was for him to do it and how "cruel" it was not to.  We expressed our concern clearly and with great conviction.  My husband came in wondering what the fuss was all about.  The boys told him and he laughed.  A great reminder that peer pressure starts at home, but even then, sometimes 3 out of 4 is the best you can do...

In the middle of all of this thanking/not thanking, reviving/not reviving and the chastising that came with it, it occurred to me that despite the excessive video game playing in our living room, our values are still the ones being worked out, played by, and fought for (except the one where we don't kill our enemies).  In a world that is increasingly grey and video games are bad, maybe we're getting away with something-- Like finding some good old-fashioned black-and-white where no one is looking for it.

You should thank the bus driver and if you don't, you're going to hear about it.  A bunch of times.

You revive your teammate every time it is within your power to do so.

You take turns.

You answer for poor judgment.

And if any discussion pertaining to the above subject matter does not end with your mother's complete satisfaction, a brother is always available to assist with the power button, especially if it is in the middle of your game.

   

If Onlys, Accidents, and Dying on Schedule

I just finished reading One Minute After You Die by Erwin Lutzer, pastor of the Moody church.  I didn't agree with everything in it, but I liked his confidence, the questions I came away with, and the things it reminded me of.  In case you're not a reader (it seems like fewer people are these days), but you want to wonder with me, here are the things that have got me thinking...

What we call an accident might be a well-planned event to God.  Just think of the contingencies, the events that had to converge for the accident (or death) to happen...

If only we had called the doctor sooner...
If only there would not have been ice on the highway...
If only we had noticed the lump sooner...
If only they had operated...
If only they had not operated...

Let me encourage you to take those "if onlys" and draw a circle around them.  Then label the circle, "The providence of God."  The Christian believes that God is greater than our "if onlys."  His providential hand encompasses the whole of our lives, not just the good days, but the "bad" days too.  We have the word accident in our vocabulary; He does not.

Accidents, ill health, or even dying at the hand of an enemy - God uses all of these means to bring His children home.  As long as we entrust ourselves to His care, we can be confident that we are dying according to his timetable...The fact is God can send any chariot He wishes to fetch us for Himself.

I eagerly and confidently agree to all of this in my spirit and with the small part of my faith that is perfect.  And fleeting. 

But, the problem of pain enters, which reminds me at this moment that C.S. Lewis wrote a book so entitled, and I should probably read that next.  I think I've attempted it before, but it seemed too heavy for the flimsy framework I had to hang it on. 

Until I can think and write more intelligibly about the subject of pain, it will suffice to say that pain changes everything, including what we believe can be circled up and labeled as God's providence.

So, there's that. 

But, separately (although intimately tied to previous thoughts and subsequent conclusions), I'm entertaining the idea of dying on time, on schedule, or according to a meticulous plan.  Is it impossible to die "before your time"?  Is it?

It was for Jesus.  "His hour had not yet come"...repeatedly.

I've thought about all of this many a time, but the question has been given new life this go round, particularly in light of Christ's words to Peter about his own death.

"'Truly, truly, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to gird yourself and walk wherever you wished; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands and someone else will gird you, and bring you where you do not wish to go.'  Now this He said, signifying by what kind of death he would glorify God." (John 21:18-19)

To this, the author writes, "Can anyone deny that Christ chose the way in which Peter would die?" 

Umm.  Not so eager here. 

I'm tempted to rush past the question and the implications.  It leaves me with My Shepherd planning a death, even a terrible death, for me or someone I love.  I probably don't need to explain how this makes me feel, because I'm guessing you already know.  You feel it, too.   

As a grieving friend said earlier this week, "I wish I was one of those people who could go around believing and professing that everything is God's will."  I understand this.

I also understand that the desire to believe is a gift of its own.  That feeling the tension and believing anyway, is a gift of its own.  That living with belief in a good God who orchestrates death and allows unimaginable pain is a gift of its own.  A gift then.  From Who?

I'm reminded that I am never more at peace than when I believe that nothing happens outside of God's will.  This has re-centered me on as many days as I have been capable of conscious thought. 

Our life's work is not to never doubt, but to continue the work of believing, to live with unanswered questions, to attempt to live peacefully amidst ideas that are diametrically opposed, and to plead with the Lord to increase our faith, while remembering that so much more is happening than what we see and understand, and that whether we believe in chariots or not might not be the question.

Being Married on a Saturday Morning

I've been thinking about something and this Saturday morning has been the perfect crucible for my thoughts. 

I've had a lot of conversations lately with men and women who are grieving the loss of their spouse and with people who find it difficult to have their needs remotely met in the context of marriage.  In the case of the former, I hear the intensity of a husband's love for his wife, how he wished he would have appreciated her more, how a wife would give anything for five more minutes with her husband, and how many question the value of their own life without their spouse in it to give it meaning.

I find this incredibly poignant, beautiful, and heart-rending.  I can never hear too much about one person's love for another and I grieve with them. 

But, then I wake up in my own marriage on Saturday morning.

I don't see my husband in the mornings during the work week, because he's hitting the gym long before I care to be awake.  But, on Saturdays, we're both home, and I'm tricked into thinking that starting our day together in separate rooms means something.  That checking in with the outside world first thing, is an indication that everything else (including me) is the last thing. 

My mind swings back and forth between the reality of those who are grieving the loss of their person and sitting alone on my futon, feeling like we're getting it all wrong.  I start to feel resentful and pull away in this black-and-white-world-where-you-wish-you-had-five-more-minutes-with-the-one-you-love or you sleep walk through the next forty years. 

And I pray.  I pray that the Lord will illuminate the truths that I've forgotten and help me to see what I'm inclined to ignore.

And He answers. 

I remember that it would be impossible to live forward in time with the intensity of frustrated love, which belongs to the grieving.  That to buy more gifts, spend more time, appreciate every moment and opportunity to love sounds so wonderful, but is impossible to maintain. 

I remember that human beings have a certain capacity to love and give and invest in others.  This same capacity is largely influenced by hunger, sleep, intro and extroverted natures, schedules, time, emotional strain, and how long you have to keep it up.

The intensity of love in a marriage is often shrouded by the dailiness of it all.  Love looks like washing dishes and bringing the grill back in and going places you don't want to go and being awake when you'd rather be napping.  But, it's there.

We don't have to see something to know that it exists.  Ask any dog who lives in a yard with an invisible fence.   

Love is there and so often, it looks like beginning again.  Trusting again in that love which you cannot see and as often, cannot feel.  And it's worth everything you can throw at it, commit to it, or sacrifice on its altar. 

This time, in my case, it will look like an apology for being cold with no explanation and refusing kindness without gratitude, and maybe a blog post which encourages us to believe again in a love that we're tempted to doubt. 

The outstretched and enduring nature of our mission as married folks is daunting.  It is impossible to do it perfectly, but possible to do it well.  And part of doing it well is persevering...until death do us part.  And between now and then, taking advantage of what is, to feel fully that which you have to give, and giving it. 

 

 

The Acid Test of Flight

"All our ideas, all our calculations, all our hopes lie there before me, waiting to undergo the acid test of flight...Today, reality will check the claims of formula and theory on a scale which hope can't stretch a single hair" writes Charles Lindberg about his preparations to make the first transatlantic flight in The Spirit of St. Louis.

This is not my normal reading fare, but a recently widowed man recommended it to me, so I went to the library and checked it out the next day.  I'm only a third of the way through, but I'm surprised how much I'm enjoying it and how Mr. Lindberg is able to nail descriptions of things that are difficult to describe.  I guess I shouldn't be surprised since doing difficult things was kind of his specialty.

The acid test of flight...

As a hospice bereavement coordinator, I work with the bereaved.  Those who are grieving.  Those who are learning how to live with grief.  And none of them feel like they know how.  And yet, they do it, through the seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years. 

Sometimes there are preparations that last years and other times not even a single day.  They anticipate, imagine, plan, discuss, and guess about how things will come to an end and what it will be like, all the while saying "I don't know how to do this" while they are in fact, doing it.

The acid test of flight...

After the recent death of a patient I had the privilege of getting close to, I was struck by the five seconds it took to write her name and the word "funeral" after it in my calendar.  How can that be?!  We die in less time than it takes for someone to pencil our funeral in on their calendar.

It probably seems morbid to you, but this prompts me to imagine people writing "Heidi's funeral" in their calendar, followed by a time for the service.  I wonder who would come and whose attendance would surprise me, and pray that people aren't whispering sadly to themselves, if only.

As I read somewhere, I believe that we die in a moment and all the rest is living.

The acid test of flight...

Beyond thoughts, preparations, and intentions to actual flying.  Not thinking about flying, but f.l.y.i.n.g.  Living, for those of us who have never had a flying lesson.

I love what Charles Lindberg writes about preferring steadiness to accuracy in a compass, if forced to choose.  It's easy to subtract or add a few degrees to one's magnetic course.  

And when the skeptics press into the cracks of his own doubt, he replies, "I can't very well miss the entire European coast."

I'm not sure I can explain it, but this sentence that has no obvious relevance to my own life, makes my soul laugh in relief.  Yeah, I can't very well miss the entire European coast. 

My hat is off to Mr. Lindberg for his always hopeful and detailed account of his endeavor to make the first transatlantic flight and to you, my fellow flyers, who are acing the acid test of flight, in spite of not knowing how.