They missed the miracle

For some reason, this is the hardest post I've written to date. I think it's because I fear my words will not do it justice; there is simply no way I can walk you through this time in my life without glossing over much of it. Even still, it is a Thanksgiving story, so here goes.

I am the mother of four sons. That makes me blessed. At times it made me crazy. But I am, and have been for a very long time, convinced that God knew what he was doing when he gave me boys.

And he knew what he was doing when he took my daughter away.

By the time I was 22 I had been married, divorced, had two kids, two abortions, and was pregnant again.

I was a hot mess. Living in my mother's basement with my two tiny sons, I would party every chance I got. I was going to church again, playing piano on the praise team even, albeit  hungover. I was making friends with a few believers, and I was pretty sure the guitar player liked me. But I still had this other life, other friends, other influences and addictions guiding my behavior.

There was a night at work that set a change in motion. It was right after my second abortion, and I was sick as a dog. The second abortion was not routine.  Something went wrong, I woke up and later I became very, very ill. In a casual conversation  with a coworker I said "I will never have another abortion. If I get pregnant again, I will give it up for adoption."

Months, maybe weeks later, I'm not really sure, I'm in the basement, pregnancy test in one hand, bible in the other, and my own words rattling around in my head. Here I am, unable to support my sons and me alone, and this child would have no father. If I abort again, no one would have to know. I could just "change" my life afterwards. If I adopt, everyone would know, but few if any would be happy about it. I knew my mother would not support the idea of adoption. I doubted anyone in my family would. The only place I knew I could garner support would be the church and the few friends I had there.

There never was a doubt about what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to place this child for adoption. It was never a decision I had to make; it was an answer placed in my heart before the question had been asked. And it came with peace. I knew it would be hard, but I also knew that it would work out for my good. Emily would save my life.

The months that followed were more down than up. I was absolutely correct about how my family would react. Fortunately I was able to hide from most of them. The leaders and elders of the church were supportive in the academic sense, but they were dealing with something bigger than they'd ever expected, and preferred to keep things quiet and invisible. Frankly, their inaction hurt me more than anything. I would receive phone calls from the chief elder saying “we talked about you in lasts night’s meeting and here is what we decided you are to do…” Not once did they talk TO me. I was never counseled or mentored. I was handled. 

People I worked with were confused and often attempted to talk me out of my decision. My minister put me in touch with an attorney who helped me choose an adoptive family. Unfortunately, she failed to secure all the necessary agreements with the adoptive family and left the country before I delivered. My mother evicted me and my sons in my 8th month. "You could have at least aborted," she said.

Ultrasounds were in their infancy at this time, but I insisted on finding out the baby's gender. I had desperately wanted my two boys to be girls, and I needed to know. I invited a friend to come with me to the ultrasound but at the last minute she had to back out. It was a beautiful, sunny, summer day. I can still feel the devastation when the tech announced "It's a girl." I walked to the car numb, unable to appreciate the warm sun on my shoulders. I sat in my car and sobbed.

Although I felt scared and alone, God was working. Church friends became my family. They stepped up and loved me in ways I could not have imagined before. They taught me how they lived the bible out every day; how the Word and prayer changed their lives. One friend, a single young woman, would have lunch with me and teach me how she overcame relationship issues. Another friend was also a single mom with addictions in her past. One elder in particular made a point to talk with me, counsel me, and pray with me every Wednesday night. The guitar player and I became good friends. He introduced me to Christian music, and we would have bible study by phone.

Emily's adoptive parents were also very supportive of me. They would call me weekly and we would talk for hours. I went across the country to visit them for a weekend in my 6th month of pregnancy. They hosted a BBQ and I met all the family and friends who would be in Emily's life. I received handwritten prayers and notes of encouragement from them. When I went to their church, the Sunday School class laid hands on me and prayed over me. I was invited to sing for worship. It was a stark contrast to what I experienced at home, and it was such a comfort.

It was Thanksgiving Day 1992. The adoptive parents and their moms had decided to fly to Louisville because they just "knew" that Emily, due the first week of December, was coming early. Another friend from church had procured a Thanksgiving food basket for me, which actually angered several church leaders, but it enabled me to host Thanksgiving dinner for the adoptive family and a few friends. One of the menu requests was cornbread stuffing, simply because my new west coast family had never heard of it. Early in the morning I put the bird in the oven, and felt the first twinge. Labor had begun.

I said nothing. I cooked and served dinner as planned. Twelve of us piled into my tiny apartment and feasted on food I don't remember cooking. After we ate, as the men were cleaning up, one of the adoptive grandmas looked at me and asked, "So how long have you been in labor?"

There was a collective gasp as everyone stopped. Literally, the other 11 folks in the room stopped dead in their tracks and looked at me waiting for me to answer. "Oh, about 7 hours I guess." They all got excited, cleaned up, and insisted we go to the hospital.

This is the part I had been dreading. I didn't want to be in labor and have to explain to everyone, over and over again, that this child was being adopted. To my surprise, I didn't. I told one person, the assistant who helped me into bed, and from there everyone was on the same page. I think that was the only aspect of this whole experience that went according to plan.

I had delivered my first two naturally (36 hours and 20 hours), but I knew I needed an epidural for Emily. She came quickly, so quickly she beat the doctor and the nurse ended up delivering her. The adoptive parents stayed with me and helped me deliver, the dad even got to cut Emily's cord. They followed Emily to the nursery, and my friends came in to stay with me afterwards. One of them, a divorced dad himself, rubbed my feet as I laid in the bed shaking from the epidural. It was such a simple gesture, but spoke volumes to me. Here was a man who wanted nothing from me, doing something nice for me just because he cared for me. That is just one of the micro-lessons I learned about Jesus from my Christian friends.

Since my bills hadn't been paid, the hospital only kept me 12 hours. Just before I was discharged I asked to hold Emily. Her parents and grandparents were there, as was my friend the guitar player. They brought her into the room in a bassinet. Her name tag was purple; indicating she was to be adopted. I picked her up. I don't remember if I said anything, or just looked at her. She was so tiny; I only remember thinking, "You are not mine. You have never been mine. You were in my body, I love you. I was only the means for your arrival because God has something planned for you, but you do not belong to me." And I handed her to her mother.

The guitar player sat in the floor, head down. He took me home later and I asked him what was wrong. "They missed the miracle," he said. "All the people who didn't understand, who insulted you, who hurt you, they completely missed the miracle that I witnessed in that hospital room."

He was so right, but not for the reasons he thought.  I was out of control, on a downward spiral that was leading straight to death. With Emily, God stopped me dead in my tracks. It was an intervention. During the (almost) year I spent in turmoil with an unplanned pregnancy, God was healing me. The pregnancy became a hedge of protection to me, a physical boundary preventing me from engaging in my routine of self-destruction.

But not only was I forced to stop killing myself, I was taught love. Love that I hadn't seen at home, love that I truly did not understand at first. Individual people stood up and befriended me, intentionally and somewhat defiantly; they worked hard to make me feel valuable and worthy. They even defended me in a few situations, which had never happened before. They did for me what no preacher from any pulpit could do. They were Jesus in skin.

A few weeks before I delivered, I told a friend that a part of me didn't want the pregnancy to end. I was safe behind my belly, I didn't have to make choices or decisions because I was not faced with any temptations. I was afraid of what would happen once that barrier was gone. I was afraid of dating.

And the guitar player? Well, that is probably the most profound part of this testimony. I was right, he liked me. Had I not gotten pregnant when I did, we probably would have gone down the same path I had been down with every man I had ever dated. But fortunately Emily happened, and we were forced to become friends. Real friends. Friends who are transparent. Friends who love each other and want only good things for the other. Even though I was disappointed, I accepted that we were friends. I didn't know that he was waiting for me to heal. We began dating after the adoption was final and married in 1994. John has been the greatest (earthly) gift I have ever received, but left to my own devices, I am sure I would have destroyed any relationship we would have had.

Many missed the miracle, but the miracle wasn't giving a child to a childless couple. The miracle was the work done in my heart. The miracle was the life-saving love I found. I silently celebrate this every Thanksgiving.

There is so much left out of this story, and there is no way you will ever feel what I feel by simply reading text on a computer screen. But know, if you have ever been blessed by me, it is a direct result of what God did in me through Emily.

My daddy's shelves

My dad made a set of shelves way back in the 70's that I have lugged around since my parents divorced in 1982. They are big and bulky, and they possess many imperfections. They are not shaped the same; one shelf is cut differently from the other two. He obviously lost control of the router on the front of one of them. The boards are not true, although I'm sure some of that is weather related warping over time. For three decades these shelves have been in an attic, closet, or basement; neither displayed nor discarded. Just sitting there. Waiting. Until last week.

About two weeks ago I decided I wanted to hang them in my kitchen, not in the way dad had designed and built them, but with a more modern look. John and I bought brackets and put them up last Saturday. Well, we put up two of them. The third, larger shelf will have to wait for the remainder of the kitchen remodel, but it too will have a home eventually.

I've written a great deal about my mom, not so much about my dad. There are a couple of reasons for that, none of them seem very important to me now. You see, when my husband and I came home from the grocery Friday afternoon there was a strange envelope waiting for me in the mailbox. It was life insurance paperwork on my father.

Shelves my father made
when I was a child. 

Just to review: my mother was dead a week before anyone missed her. My dad was dead for a month and I was notified by the mailman.

It's hard for me to explain to people that I was estranged from both of my parents. It's embarrassing. It brings all sorts of awkwardness on both sides of the conversation, especially if the other person knew either of them, but especially if they knew my dad. This post is a smattering of thoughts, memories, emotions, reactions; all of which are difficult for me to put into words.

Dad was brilliant, vivacious, funny, and loved to laugh. He loved music and singing. He played guitar.  He could fix or build anything. In fact, I grew up thinking that the ability to fix cars, washing machines, windows, or build a porch were inherent man-traits because of the men in my family. I didn't know that there were professional plumbers or electricians until my parents divorced and my mother had to call someone other than my dad.

Dad was also generous to a fault. Money meant nothing to him, and if he could buy you something to make you happy he would. He died a pauper for this reason. Many people received financial support from my dad over the years. I'm a lot like him in that regard, which is why I believe my husband to be a gift from God. IN my best Forest Gump voice, "That's about all I have to say about that."

Dad was quirky. He had a way of speaking to you, a way that would at times make you question your own sanity. His method was one part flirt and two parts cocky with a twist of humor. He could appear to be a genius or a simpleton with equal flair, and he had a way of insulting service workers that went right over most of their heads. He generally got his way in stores or restaurants, but when he didn't things would go south quickly. If my dad's charming method failed to achieve his perception of success he would devolve into an obnoxious, unreasonable, threatening figure, and occasionally the poor soul on the receiving end would call security or the police just to get my dad to leave. My father has been escorted against his will out of more than one establishment.

Most of the people who know my dad thought he was a lot of fun to be around. And he was. He loved to play games. My dad always had big ideas of making life fun for everyone. Whether it was badminton in front yard or hearts at the kitchen table, bowling on Sunday or one-on-one basketball, dad liked to have fun. He expected everyone to have fun as well, and if we didn't, well it was no fun for anyone.

At home my dad was volatile, moody, explosive, and at times, physically abusive. I learned at a very early age how to read his mood and walk on egg shells. My mother thought it was quite funny when I, at the age of 5, came into the kitchen from the backyard, calmly  announcing that "dad is having one of his fits" and had just thrown the lawnmower into the concrete ditch behind the house. I wasn't as amused when he did the same thing to my bike. Or my dog Rufus.

There were many times I wasn't able to get away from his abuse, and it was always two-fold. He always held me by the arm and either shook or hit me, and he always screamed and yelled about how stupid I was for doing whatever I had done to cause his outburst. What did I do, you ask?

Once I fell down. That's right. We were walking along the rocky banks of the Nolin River and I tripped over a rock. When I got up he pushed me back down for being so stupid and clumsy. Another time I was pushing my friends around in a wheel barrow. There was the time I was 16 and talking to a group of friends outside of the building where we were square dancing. That one was especially fun, as he made a scene, cussed me out and slapped me in the car, and then forced me to behave normally at the restaurant with them a half-hour later. Then there was the time I twisted my ankle playing soccer in PE. Oh, and there is the time when I was around  five and I couldn't understand his explanation of the multiplication tables. Everyone of these times I was shaken and/or smacked, and verbally accosted.

There are times I don't remember that others insist happened. My childhood friend shared a memory with me that scared her and her little brother so badly they hid from my dad. My sister told me once he had me behind the barn beating me with a stick so badly she intervened. My mother had also told me of times I ran away from him- but I must have blocked all of these memories. If others hadn't shared them with me, I wouldn't know they existed.

And then there is the third side of my dad, the crying. Frankly, this was worse than the physical abuse. My father, tall and lean, blubbering unintelligibly while sobbing crocodile tears. He would go on and on about how worthless he was. As good as he was at insulting others, he was a master at self-denigration. No amount of logic would work at this point. Well logic didn't work at any point. But when dad was in one of these moods, you just hoped it would end well. More than once someone was worried that dad was suicidal.


So was my dad mentally ill? Yeah, surely he was. He was diagnosed as bipolar at one time. Schizophrenia came up too, but that one is a little harder for me to believe. He sought treatment a few times, both on his own free will and at the behest of a judge, but he didn't stick with treatment. He self medicated with alcohol for a while- those were probably some of the best, calmest years.

My dad was in and out of my life after I became an adult. After years of drinking and smoking, he suddenly stopped both after the birth of my first child, his oldest grandson. He became less lighthearted and more opinionated. He would be around for life events and holidays for a while, then he would disappear without explanation for months or even years at a time. I wish I could say that my fear of my father went away in my adult years, but it didn't. He still could say things to me that cut me deeply. It got to the point that I knew the first two items up for discussion would be my weight and my dirty house. He loved to poke me with political jabs, enticing me to argue with him because we did not agree on several levels. And invariably, I would end up being called stupid for my beliefs; or a failure for my lack of vision. The bottom line: I was never good enough, thin enough, or smart enough to make him happy.

My boys loved my dad, when he was around. There were times when he was very active in their lives, and then times when he just stopped communicating with them altogether. He didn't acknowledge any birthdays or Christmases, but one day he would just show up and insist that everyone go to do something fun and then get ice cream afterward. He would get very involved with the kids and then not. He attended a few of John's basketball games, but not his high school graduation. They were confused. I assured them that I could not explain their grandfather, and just encouraged them to enjoy it when he was around, and not take his absences personally.

Sadly, all four of my children had an opportunity to see my father get angry and violent. Fortunately they only saw violence toward an inanimate object, but it scared them none the less. As they told me what happened I just nodded my head and said "Yeah. I know. I grew up with that." .

I admit it. I quit. I quit trying to have a normal relationship with my father. I didn't want to be around him. I didn't want to listen to the insults, the denigration, and the accusations. I got tired of walking on egg shells, living in fear of opening a can or worms, or being called stupid. His failing health did not slow down his barrage of hurtful comments. When he went to live with my sister, I knew he would be taken care of, and in a way, I was off the hook. Yeah, I'm a quitter like that I guess. In a way I proved him right.

I had the opportunity to talk to all four children separately today and tell them of their grandfather's death. I admitted my guilt to them, but received something unexpected from each of them; encouragement. My children are angry. They feel abandoned. They do not blame me for my parents' decision to step out of their lives. Frankly that surprised me a little bit, but I'm also relieved. I also now understand that however painful it feels to be rejected by a parent, it must be exponentially more painful to feel that from a grandparent.

I will go to my grave with guilt and regret. I was a lousy daughter. And if that were the end of the story, this would be a tragedy. But it's not. If you know anything about bipolar disorder, you know it has a genetic tendency. I have a responsibility to prevent this sort of dysfunction in the upcoming generations. My father's death has only deepened my resolve to make sure I am a better mom and grandmother than my parents were. None of us can change our past, but we can allow God to redeem it. I still have a lot of daddy issues to work through, a number or demons to exorcise, and I don't expect that to happen overnight if at all. But as I hold my sweet grandbabies on my lap, may they know how much they are loved and adored. May they feel comfortable and safe in the arms and at the hands of their parents and grandparents alike.

My cousin, whom if I ever met her in real life I don't remember it, summed it up nicely in a facebook message "what a strange family we have."

Happy Mother's Day to my other moms

I did not have a good mother and a good upbringing. You know that, I've been very vocal about my mother for years. But today is not about her. It's about the other women who influenced me.

The first other mom to impact me is Angela. Her daughter and I became friends the first day of first grade. I loved to visit their home, and wanted to live my friend's life. Angela and her husband joked around with each other. Angela laughed with us when we were being silly little girls. In fact, she would often encourage the silliness to continue. I spent many nights in this home, most of them now just a blur in my memories of childhood; but there are a chosen few memories that will remain as clear as the day they happened.

I was in third grade when my mother had surgery, and I stayed with them for a few (school) nights. Out of the blue one night I got scared that something bad was going to happen to my mom and I started crying. My friend tried everything her 9 year old mind knew to do, but in the end said "I'm going to get mom."

Angela sat in the bed with me and held me and let me cry. I remember her holding me, stroking my hair, comforting me and encouraging me that everything was going to be OK. To Angela it was a small gesture. She never knew that I felt something in her arms that I couldn't explain, that in that moment I felt love that I never felt at home. My friend had no idea how lucky I thought she was to have such an amazing mom, and how much I envied her home life.

My teen years brought two more moms into my life. Tess's mom was unlike any woman I ever met. She had a commanding appearance and an even more commanding personality. She cursed when she was angry and drank wine in front of her kids; two attributes that my own mother frowned upon greatly. Tess's mother had traveled a lot and told us often of her adventures. I liked being around her, I thought she was beautiful, intimidating, and fascinating.

Tess told me often how much she loved her mother. Sure, they fought, and I happened to be in the room a couple of times when they did. Their arguments were loud, explosive, and always on point. Neither Tess nor her mom turned an argument about a topic into an assassination of each other's character. And at the end of the heated debate, they always confirmed their love for each other.

Tess and her mom were the ones who saved my life as a 17 year old. It was the end of May and I was living with my dad (because mom had kicked me out) 50 miles away. I had come to the city to visit mom and friends, and was in a deep, deep depression. Tess knew it, and I'm sure she shared it with her mom. But neither of them knew I had a plan. A plan to end my pain.

My last stop before heading the 50 miles back home was Tess's house, and my plan was already in action. Tess and her mother recognized that I was suddenly calm in the midst of my mental storm. Tess's mom had Tess search my car, where she found the empty pill and alcohol bottles. Tess and her mom hid my keys and called EMS.

Things became blurry as the pills started taking effect, but I remember Tess's mom acting as my mom on the ER check in. And then I remember the argument she had with my mother when mom got there. My mother was indignant that Tess's mom dared step in and call EMS because this was a family matter, that she should have been notified and allowed to decide what to do. As I lay on the stretcher semi-conscious being treated for narcotic and anti-coagulant overdose, Tess's mom pointed out the flaw in my mother's logic, defended her actions, and finally leaned over to me and told me she would do it all again to save my life.

Tracy's mom was also there for me a great deal in my high school years. Also a single mom, she opened her home to me when I needed it. You see, I knew mom wouldn't hesitate to kick me out, even though I was a minor. So when things got tense I would leave, hoping things would calm down and I wouldn't have to leave for good. In reality, I was hoping my mom would miss me, but that never happened.

Tracy's mom made my prom dress for me. I have no idea how hard that was to do, she didn't have a pattern, only  my drawing on a piece of notebook paper. But she did it, never complained (to me at least) and I was able to go to prom with a one-of-a-kind dress for less than $50 in material.

Things have been a little bit different in my adult life. I have been blessed to watch several amazing moms in action. Pat, who has taught me how to come through trials with love. Jennifer, who exemplifies that love is a multiplying factor not a divisor. Mary, who taught me that only death is fatal.  These are just three of the amazing moms I know.

And while I wasn't actually looking for a mother figure, one found me; Barb. Although she started out as my boss, her title morphed into "mother" over time. She wasn't just mother to me, though, but to everyone in her charge. She encouraged us, pushed us to do more at times, and then put us under her wing to protect us when needed. However unprofessional it may be, she filled a void in my life. She became a confidante, she advised me on personal issues with my children, and allowed me to cry on her shoulder. And while my own mother was still alive but absent from our lives, she stepped up to be a grandmother to my sons.

It would be easy to say that my mom failed me. But here's the thing, I saw all of these other moms fail too. None of the moms I've honored here are perfect. They all fought with their children, got frustrated or angry at some point, and probably said things they regretted from time to time. But the one thing I know, they love their children, and they also loved me in some way.

The hardest part of looking back at my childhood is seeing in how many ways I have become like my mother. But thanks to the love I experienced and the lessons I learned from these other moms, I know I am better at this mother thing than my mom was. And that is her loss, because being a mom, and now a grandma, is a super awesome experience.

Happy Mother's Day to all you moms. Your circle of influence is greater than you know.

The response myth

I've heard and seen several news reports in recent days surrounding a local celebrity and allegations of rape, and the sound bytes have angered me greatly. The names are not important. The fact that the grand jury chose not to indict does not matter here. I have no opinion on whether or not a sexual assault occurred. I will not debate any potential social injustice, and I have nothing to say about whether or not the jury was biased. In short, the case is not why this post came to my mind. I am angered by the sound bytes I've heard; short quotes by learned individuals who use their positions of authority to perpetuate a myth.

[She] did not act like a victim.

So there it is. The myth. According to this extremely intelligent, highly-paid, influential individual, there is some sort of "way" a victim is supposed to act, and if those actions are absent, a victim she is not.

So, I ask you, how is one supposed to behave following a sexual assault? 

(pause here for contemplation)

There is no answer because there is no one right way to react. Rape is an assault, but it's not like being beaten up or stabbed with a knife. There is no gaping hole that requires suturing. Sometimes there are no marks, no bruises, nothing to show for the damage that was done. A rapist is a thief, taking what no insurance policy can replace. For so, so many, rape destroys the most precious of gifts, physical intimacy, because of the scars it creates on the spirit.  Preparedness is not possible; so many times these destroyers are those whom we believe are safe. All we can do is react.

I could tell you about child victims who hid the abuse because they were scared for their (or their families') lives. I could tell you about the women I know who self medicate with drugs or alcohol. I could tell you about the ones who go straight to the phone and call police. or the ones with severe depression, or even dissociate. I could tell you about the women who have become victims again, maybe once, maybe twice, or maybe for the several years. I could tell you about the women who get up and go back to the fields to work pretending nothing ever happened.

But I won't. You've heard those stories before. We all have. All I want you to remember, to know, is that there is no textbook response for a victim of sexual assault, and immediate response does not indicate whether or not a crime occurred.