On being small....er

I was born into a family that is, for all intents and purposes, half Swedish and half German. There are some other things mixed in (French on my dad's mother's side that give me my distinctive nose) and some Irish and things like that, but mostly German and Swedish. My dad was 5' 10'"and had fleshed out by the time I was born. My mother is 5' 9". When my older brother was born, he was barely 5 pounds, but quickly took after the Swedish side of our family and reached high percentiles for height and weight. He is now a beefy 6' 2". My little sister is 5' 11", and 17  year old baby brother is 6' 3"....so far. I, on the other hand, am 5' 5 1/2". I cling to that half inch too. Don't forget the half! I also have a slighter build than everyone else in my family. I....am the runt!

Growing up, my smaller frame - especially compared to my family, resulted in me being endlessly described as "tiny" or "so small". For all of 2nd and 3rd grade, my weight stayed the same. I did not grow in height or put on weight. My mom has told me since then that this actually caused her worry. 

When people would say these things about my size, I know full well that they were sort of offering some endearing compliment. They thought is was cute or sweet or unusual that I be so small given the family in which I found myself, but do you know what I heard? I heard "weak". I heard "different". I heard "doesn't make sense" and "doesn't fit in". I was also slow along with being small, so I always got picked last for recess sports and gym class teams. 

In 5th grade, a lot of the girls started to develop the beginnings of curves...I did not. In fact, there was a very mean little boy who would wait until there was a crowd of other students but no teacher, and he would unkindly shout out insults while everyone was watching. He would call me "flat-chested" and "a carpenter's dream" and then slap me. I will never forget the expression of horror on the other kids' faces as he would say these things. No one stopped him during these moments (although one boy ended up ratting him out. I'll never forget YOU, little boy). They just stood there, stunned.

I think I finally hit a growth spurt for height around the age of 13. I was no longer the shortest in my group of friends. In fact, I was one of the taller girls, and being the mid 90's, platforms and heels came back with a vengeance. Since I'd been sporting heels whenever I could since the age of 3, I took full advantage that I was now allowed to wear these fancy things on my feet. The growth spurt only effected my height, though. I was still flat as a board, as that little boy told me.

Here's where the body shaming came in. For some reason, though there were girls that were skinnier than me, people took many liberties in teasing me about my size. None of this, that I could see or hear, was directed towards the other girls. It happened incredibly frequently. There was sometimes communicated a jealousy that I was so skinny, and other girls wished they were my size, but sometimes it was just that I was "too" skinny. I also went to a very conservative church and school where skirt length was important (yes. pants were a no-no at most functions). That hemline better be to the knee. Well, when your frame is small but you must observe hemline rules, guess what's going to happen. SOMEthing is going to end up being too big. In my case, it was everything EXCEPT the hemline. My poor mother would always buy me clothes that were too big - on into high school. She was just observing the rules - protecting me - but what I felt was the reinforcement of what that little boy had said and what many other people had said. I was "different". I was "weak" and "frail looking". I.....was.....different. I had another skinny friend in high school with whom I would have eating contests. For whatever reason, no matter how much each of us ate, we would put on no weight at an age that some girls are already starting to count calories. We were going to try though! During any break from school, we would eat as many fatty, carb filled, sugary foods as we possibly could to see if maybe, just maybe, the number on the scale would change, but to no avail.

Fashion changed, as it always does, and long skirts became very en vogue. Smaller waist sizes became available in stores in the sections outside of the children's department, so I had a lot of fun with that. I wore clunky shoes, and I had 2 satin skirts the combination of which became my signature. I will never forget someone rounding a building to the bench where I was sitting and saying "I KNEW it was you! I saw those shoes, and I thought 'That's Sarah! Those are her shoes'". I was so ecstatic! I had become known for my style and its signatures rather than my size!

High school ended, but the comments about my size when people saw my very Swedishly proportioned family in comparison to me didn't. But my boobs came in! I was at least grateful for that. I looked less often like I was swimming in every shirt I put on, but I was still very envious of girls with a little flesh around their arms or thighs or girls with any butts at all. So so jealous. They looked so much more womanly than I felt I did. I felt like I just looked like a sickly child. 

This continued until I got pregnant with my first child. I became discouraged when, at one of my visits to my OB/GYN, I was told that I was underweight for my pregnancy. "Fantastic!" I thought "I'm not even healthy enough for my baby!". Lots of self loathing. Lots. Lots of old ghosts came flooding back, haunting me.

I did end up putting on the appropriate amount of weight after morning sickness ended, and I kept some of the baby weight after the baby was born. I....was....THRILLED! Finally I got to fill out the clothes that hung on any rack of any store! I gloried in the fact that, after my second child, I could walk even into the plus size section and find things that fit! My body was giving me options! I felt like I'd finally reached womanhood, and people were starting to tell me how alike I looked to my family! 

Then I started hearing negative things though. I started hearing that I was actually unattractive because of the weight I'd put on. I heard many times that the weight was a reflection of my laziness and that the only reason that other women (with way different metabolisms, of different ages and different body types) lost their baby weight and I didn't was because THEY worked out and I didn't. This was such a deathless discouragement! Why couldn't my size ever just be right?!

So I joined a gym, hired a personal trainer and started taking extra classes to drop my weight and increase strength. During the first 4 minutes of a Zumba class, I sidestepped, and something went terribly and utterly wrong. I heard a snap and then felt a pain so intense that my eyes went black and I hit the floor. After several visits to several different doctors, it was revealed that I had torn my ACL completely in half and ripped my meniscus in a way that had caused it to flip into a taco shell shape and wedge itself in my knee joint making it impossible to straighten my leg beyond a certain point. My quest to make my body more pleasing had resulted in extreme injury. 

My physical therapy over the next 3 months didn't change the number on the scale either. My body was stronger. With a lot of help and encouragement, I regained the ability to walk without a limp, but that darn scale. My darn appearance. I just couldn't make it right for absolutely everyone.

The thing is, though, I FELT good about the way I looked. I felt prettier having more flesh around my body. There was NO mistaking anymore that I was a woman, but it does begin to wear on one's soul to have repeated criticisms about any part of ourselves.

Over the course of the 8 months that followed my rehabbing my knee, I got a job and did not have a car, so I bought a bicycle. My job was 12.5 miles away from my residence, and it was summer in Florida. Something began to happen. People at work were starting to comment that I looked like I'd lost weight. Given the fact that I'd only ever successfully gained weight and that, once I reached a weight my body seemed determined to stay at that weight, I was skeptical. Either way, I stepped on a scale and found that I'd lost about 10 pounds!

Oh wow, Sarah! Good for you!......Despite the fact that I was receiving praise for this, I was not happy. This weight loss meant to me one thing, and one thing alone - that I was losing my womanly appearance and that I was one step closer to being the "skinny" girl that everyone teased. 

Over the course of the last year and a half, I have not lost 10 pounds. I have lost upwards to 45 pounds. I do not know to what exactly I should attribute this loss because the times during which I have eaten the most were when this loss would recur. It has been so hard for me because, every time I stepped on a scale, it would reveal more loss. 

I will never forget being at work and realizing that my clothes were too big. I needed to buy some that fit my body. I had grabbed my trusty large and only-sometimes-my-friend-medium and headed to the fitting room only to realize that they were both...too big. I began to breath heavily and feel the blood leave my head. I was going to have to try on a small. I called my sister, nearly in tears and said "Hannah, these are too big!" She calmly said "Well, Sarah, then try on a small. It's just a tag, Sarah. Put on your body what looks nice - what fits. It's okay!".  This was very comforting coming from my sister because, in today's fashion culture, unless you are a size 2, being 5' 11" makes it extremely difficult to find clothes anywhere. Hannah has gotten very creative with where she finds her clothes, what size they actually are and how she adorns her body was them.  It wasn't okay with me, though. All I could see was everyone's faces while they giggled about how skinny I was. All I could hear in the ear of my memory was the innumerable comments about my size and the distinction that I could not be accepted because of it.

It actually hurt me. I was becoming again, the skinny one.

The other day, after glorying in the fact that I felt sure that the new jiggliness of my belly meant that I'd put on weight, I plopped a quarter in the scale at the mall. I waited with delight hoping I'd find myself once again in the 10's range in which I'd felt most comfortable. What popped up on the digital screen made my eyes widen with disappointment. I'd actually LOST 8 pounds since my last weigh in. LOST?!?!?! HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?!?!?!

One of the fears I have had over the last year and a half during this loss of weight is, how much weight am I going to lose? Is there something wrong with my body? Am I sick? Probably a lot of the same worries my mom had when I was a child. How small am I going to end up being? I have had moments during this time where I have actually been disgusted by my physique. I don't mind the stretch marks that cover my entire mid-section. I wear bikinis to the beach. I don't mind that there is now loose skin around my armpits. I actually like it. I don't mind the wrinkles around my eyes. I do, however, worry when I notice that there seem to be bones poking out in places where they were cushioned and hugged before by flesh that was the fruit of successfully growing 3 babies in less than a 6 years span of time. The tape replays in my head (and did while I stood on that scale): How small am I going to get?!

Oh my gosh, Sarah! You should be grateful you're just happening to get what other people work so hard for!...Really?....Why? So I can be a cookie cut version of what a woman is supposed to look like? That didn't lend itself to acceptance for me. It drew criticism. Why would I want that just because my version of dysmorphia is opposite of most women or what is spoken of most commonly in our culture?

I have a friend who has battled with body image as well, and, though the nature of her battle has been opposite of mine, the guts are still the same. The lies, though they are opposite, are still the same. So I asked her one day what on earth I could do to stop the tape from playing in my head. Do you know what she said? She told me that it's going to be a constant battle. No matter what the rules are in my mind versus those that exist in the minds of others, it will probably stay, so I should just know that. She also told me that, when I have these moments, I will need to consciously choose not to engage. Instead, I should change my perspective from being inward to going outward. "Help people. Give to other people", she told me. I am to focus on helping others because isn't that what is most beautiful in this life anyway?

And as far as the body shaming goes, I have two daughters. One of them is taller for her age and her 3 year old body is deliciously squishy. My other daughter, however, has always been small and slight. She is my introspective, smart almost 9 year old. Her understanding of the world has always been beyond her years. She has experienced exclusion already over the fact that she is small. She too  has been chosen last for things because of her size and been left out for being small. What would it say to her if I presented smallness as a negative thing?? It would make her feel like I did so long ago and have found myself to feel recently.......defective.

So let's dissect that. If I truly believe that women are beautiful for their character AND their physical makeup because it brings variety to the world, why should I worry that my contributions won't bring the same? Right now, my body is small. The other day, right before I stepped on the scale, I went underwear shopping, and the store clerk discouraged me from buying the underwear that I'd selected because she thought they'd be too big "because you're pretty petite". I looked at her like she was crazy. I feel bad about that now! Turns out though, she was right. If I'd have purchased my preselected pretties, they would have slid down my hiney and frustrated me. I had to redirect my reaction in a split second so I did not hurt HER feelings for giving me a professional and correct opinion. 

What truths do I give myself, and what example do I show my daughter? In the words of C.S. Lewis, "You are not a body. You do not have a soul. You are a soul that has a body." This encasement of our soul is going to be the vehicle with which we change the world. Full stop. We are responsible to keep this vehicle in good condition so we enable ourselves to use that vehicle for as long as possible, and even then, bodies fail. Disease strikes. In some cases, parts of that vehicle even have to be removed and replaced with synthetic versions and not because of any failings on our part - just because. Bodies are temporal. They wear out. Let's concentrate on our bodies being the vehicles for our souls.

As far as the aesthetic qualities go, why must we insist that they do not bring pleasure? I have often been distracted by the fact that, despite 2 years of braces and headgear (oh man...the headgear), my teeth are crooked. Do you know that someone told me the other day "you have the best smile!". Hmmm. The giver of this compliment made no mention of my teeth. Also, the other day I was laying on the couch and my husband traced his finger over my belly that had become bare where the flannel shirt I'd stolen from him had fallen away - that place right above my belt line. "Your pretty belly.." he said. My belly - covered in stretch marks and now the loosest part of my body, the part of my body that sort of spills over any pair of pants that I put on no matter how much weight I lose and the part that leaves a line under dresses that are meant to have lines with no interruptions, the part that has never seemed to be....right. A light switched on in my brain. This therapy - this taking apart and laying out every part of my mind - has begun to show some repair. I realized this because.....I believed him. I do not think that my body is universally pleasing. I just know this - it's pretty....to him. I flipped over and looked at him. "What?" he asked - probably worried that he'd tripped a negative trigger for me. I just smiled. "I believed you", I said. Then I buried my face in his side and shed a couple tears for knowing that I've healed a little.

So this world of our bodies is two-fold. We are a soul that uses a body. We should ALWAYS remember that, but we also can't discount the fact that even the most dilapidated of structures can bring pleasure to someone that happens upon them. Glory in your smile. Glory in compliments. Glory in the fact that, even if your body does not bring pleasure in the realm of a romantic relationship that someone may just enjoy the "pretty" that you bring to the table. Your smile or your hair or your pretty long fingers or adorable short ones aren't necessarily things that people love IN SPITE of what you consider to be shortcomings. They may just love them BECAUSE they are exactly what they are. 

Don't forget that there are many parts of you that are beautiful - inside AND outside. And don't forget to give to others. If there is some part of them that you love, tell them. If there is some part of them that you can see is just on the cusp of a growth spurt, tell them about how you can see that they are growing. Finally, never stop growing yourself. Traversing this world is full of lessons, and we never stop learning. Embrace them. Love the ways that you change. Love the things about you that will forever stay the same.....because other people have already begun to love those things. Join their company. This party is a really wonderful place.

On facing lies

This week has presented to me some very real challenges and some very ugly realities. There are parts of my life that are challenging all on their own. Life's true nature is to throw us things for which we could never even dream of being ready. Then there is a different type of challenge. This is the type of challenge I have faced this week. This type of challenge occurs when someone actually places themselves in a position against you - a position of attack. You find yourself being attacked.

What do you do with that? Do you get angry? Do you fight back? Do you wage full on assault against those that wait like the devil in the dark for their first chance to ruin you? Do you lay down and play dead hoping they'll just go away when they realize you've conceded? Do you actually concede? What do you do?

 I have experienced all of these emotions and asked of myself these questions so many times. I have found myself in the position of being attacked more times than I care to recall. It is really, really uncomfortable at best. On its worst days, you question everything about your life - all your choices.

This is what I have learned about myself. When I am attacked for a reason with no justification, I become angry. I live my life in a way that provides respect to everyone that I meet until or unless they prove to me that they do not deserve the freedom I have given to them to move around in my life. So if someone decides to threaten me and accuse me of doing anything besides that, I become angry. What makes me even more angry is when someone usurps their desires over the rights that have been bestowed upon me by the God of heaven and the governing bodies of this country. That just makes me mad......but I have learned to be careful about how I engage, and not just for the sake of negative ramifications that might occur if I were to let a person or persons just get a taste of what I've got to offer in the revenge department. I have learned that it's not just the damage that I could cause outwardly that should be the thing that prevents me. It is me. It is my own heart. 

I have to ask myself a few questions. 

1. Is the accuser correct in what they have to say? If the answer is yes and conviction is my reason for feeling defensive, then I need to reevaluate my thinking. If the answer is no, and the accuser is causing me to feel slighted and accused because they are lying, then I need to speak of them as what they truly are - a liar. 

2. Why is this person afraid of me? People most often lie when they are afraid. Is someone lying about you? You've made them afraid. If someone goes to what may end up being a great deal of trouble to smear your name or your efforts, you are doing something.....and you are doing something big. The harder you work, the greater your impact on the world and the greater your opponents. If your opponents seem to you to be giants, know that it is they who are in impressive company. They are there in response to what you have become - not the other way around. Don't you stop what you're doing. Don't you stop growing and loving and impacting your corner of the world. Don't you stop.

3. What harm can the liars actually do? Truth is an interesting thing. It isn't always noticed first. Sometimes the lies are really, really loud and sound really really believable....but they are always temporary. The shelf life of lies is never eternal. There have been scandals the truth about which was not revealed until all the parties involved were dead and in the ground for years....but it came to light. Know that. Truth is always stronger. If you are living truth, honestly and truly, then know that you too, are stronger. You are. The truth will come to light. Lies will always fall away, and you will find yourself to be vindicated in a way that does not require that you be malicious back to the ones who showed you their lack of character. 

These principles are hard to follow because the indignation we feel when we are treated in an unjust  way is so great. The thing I have to do, though is just stop and breath and remind myself of the truth. This is the only way to not just quiet your attackers but also to eliminate them. It is true that after one leaves, another will introduce himself into your life, but the harder you work to embrace truth, the less interruption there will be when this situations arise. Embrace that instead of the anger you may initially feel. Be productive in your response for the good of those around you but also for yourself. This is your one life! Make it a really beautiful one. 

Also feel pity for those that accuse you wrongly. They live in a way that does nothing but limit them when a life of so much more is well within their grasp. Look at them as you would a confused toddler that is throwing a fit. Poor kid....one day they'll understand. There may even come a day when, because of your steadfastness and level head, the very people that attacked you before come to you for comfort when they realize that they'd like to live differently. Make sure that you share truth in a loving way through your words and your actions. 

The thing I'd like you to absorb more than anything is that, while we never have the ability to control someone else's heart, the effects of what they do is solely and completely determined by us. Their lies will only ruin your journey if you let it. They can only make you to be inferior to them if you consent to that. They can only dictate your future if you choose to believe what they have to say.....so don't. 

Walk with your head up high knowing that you are royalty to the world - all of you. I dub you all kings and queens of your realms! Live in a way of grace because we just need more of that in the world, and it will give you more likelihood of healthy emotions later. Don't forget that, while lies are loud, truth lives forever. And don't forget this. You are loved. You are precious, and just because you face opposition does not mean that what you're pursuing is flawed. It means that it's big. So go dream your dreams, my kings and queens. Go change the world, and by all means, rise above anything that threatens you because the truth is on its way.

"Happy girls are the prettiest girls"...

The words of today's post title were spoken originally by the incomparable Audrey Hepburn. While there is indisputable truth in them, I have the suspicion that, when they were spoken originally and when they have been spoken since, the sentiment is outward. We much more freely wish happiness for others than we do for ourselves. In fact, most often, I find myself opting for things that are devoid of happiness. There have also been many times that I have felt happiness wrapping its arms around my heart that I have cast it away and chosen to cause experiences to include pain.

That's a strange thing, isn't it? - wanting for other people what you don't even want for yourself. So incomplete. So deficient.

I got married a couple days ago to the boy - that boy who loved me forever. While I have felt very sure for a long time about committing the rest of my life to live by his side, the days leading up to the actual committing were sort of a disgusting dichotomy. I knew that I wanted to be with him for the rest of my life, but the happiness of all of it made me so uncomfortable.

Dan and I spent time on our first date walking across the "walking bridge" in Chattanooga. This bridge used to be a passageway for trains to cross the Tennessee River's path through the town. The railroads abandoned using it a long time ago, so now it is a tourist attraction from which it's travelers can see much of the city and the river. It is such a pleasant place.

Apparently the walk Dan and I took was burned so indelibly in his brain that his plan has been for a long time that we would be there on the bridge when he asked me to marry him. So, after dinner downtown to celebrate my best friend's marriage, Dan and I began another walk across the bridge together. It was late in the evening, and the weather was chilly but not cold. The rain of the past couple of days had taken a break, and all that remained for a while was a heavy fog. The effect on the bridge was so stunning. The fog was present but light, so you could still see the outline of the city and the mountains in the distance, and every light in every place glowed. I drank in all of this as we walked. Dan stopped just short of halfway across the bridge and slid his arms around my waist and said to me, "I've been waiting a long time to do this" and then he kissed me. He had never kissed me a single time when we dated before. My suspicions that he was going to propose then laughed at me as I began to doubt them. Then he got down on one knee in the place where we began our story, and in the glowy fog and with tears in his kind eyes, asked me if I would marry him. I said yes, and then we stood and kissed and held each other so tight. Then I became aware of the fact that, for whatever reason, we had been alone on the bridge for the beginning of the next chapter of our story. Out of nowhere, groups of tourists or other people enjoying the night air resumed their traffic across the bridge. It was like time had stopped for us and then begun again.

So romantic. So picturesque. So perfect. So lovely. So happy.

So I felt very unsettled when I found myself choking on the word "fiance" when I made reference to Dan. What WAS that reticence? I have loved Dan for a long, long time, and I definitely love him fiercely now - more than I ever have. All that love has done is grow and grow and grow. I am also reminded many times a day that his love for me has done just the same thing....so why did I choke?

I decided to swallow my embarrassment and fear and bring it up with my therapist. I did a lot of talking and explaining, and then she interrupted me with a question with the force of the worst Oklahoma wind "Sarah, do you love yourself?". .....Um....we weren't talking about my love for me. I was talking about my love for Dan, and I was actually questioning its credence since I had this choking reaction when it came to verbally acknowledging my commitment. Her question was very telling, and I felt embarrassed alright. I absorbed what she was trying to communicate - that it wasn't my love for Dan that was causing any trouble at all. In fact, when I even think about Dan, my whole being smiles. My eyes crinkle even if my mouth isn't smiling, and I feel little butterflies. This is something that other people have pointed out to me, so it's very obvious that my love for Dan isn't what left something to be desired.

I reciprocated her interruption and said "NO! Heh. No I don't. I'm 33 years old and have very little to show for it. I feel like a colossal f*** up. (I'm thankful she doesn't balk when I use unsavory words, because sometimes they really do say exactly what I mean)". I spoke this sentence and she just sat there.....sort of waiting as if to say "I know there's more you have to say about that, and I'm not letting you get away with not saying it".

That was not a fun revelation. It feels very pathetic to realize that you cannot offer yourself the happiness you wish for others as if you are some kind of monster that doesn't deserve it or that you are on the other extreme - some sort of elitest martyr whose lot in life is to bear the burden of hurt because the pain makes you feel alive - like emotional and mental masochism. It feels good to hurt because it is what I know. This is the world in which I have dwelt for a portion of my life greater than any other. This was another time when many thoughts swirled around my brain in a stew of confusion.

I have spent a couple weeks thinking about this and trying to sort out all of those thoughts. I relate so many things into analogies, so I tried to find one for this need for pain. I even had to admit to myself that there have been days and days that have been absent of pain, so I have subconsciously created conflict. This has proven itself to cause problems in my relationships - not just with Dan but certainly most commonly that one. The thing to which I can liken this compulsion is being away from home. We all grow up a certain way. Even if you spend your childhood moving, there is a subculture of either your country or town or even just your family. There are things that are comfortingly familiar - even if they are deficient. A child of the country finds themselves hating the city because, though the city is bursting at the seams with resources and interest, the want the simplicity. On the flip side, a child of urbania does not find solace in the quiet of the country. Though the sirens and crashes and creaks and voices are, in fact, disruptive, they miss the noise.

I had gotten so used to the "noise".

My noise included things that weren't just innocuous movements of my other cohabitants of this world, though. My noise came from very poisonous experiences and very toxic people. Very toxic.

So why on earth would I try to recreate that in the crisp, fresh "country" air that my life gets to be right now? Why would I long for the smog?.........because it's what I know. It's all I've known for a very long time. I do not understand myself to be a citizen of this place of quietness and rest of a loving relationship. I'm used to having to claw my way just to get enough air to sustain brain activity.  I just do not know what I'm doing, and I do not like the feeling of unpreparedness....at.....all.

Understanding all of this about myself was freeing, but I definitely have not been satisfied just with that. Even at a casual glance, this interpretation of the world leaves some gaping holes. This is not the life I want to live because it ends up actually punishing people that want to offer you love and need to get it from you too. This immediately means Dan....and it also means my kids. I am not satisfied with them having a broken mother. These people, however, cannot be my only motivation because that still leaves the hole of myself. I deserve enjoy love - to FEEL loved. I deserve to celebrate what God has created in me. I deserve happiness - says God. "I came that they might have life and that they may have it more abundantly". God did not intend for me to drop to my knees and scurry around scraping up scraps. No. I am to be celebrated. That is not arrogance. That is a command.

Unfortunately, I am finding as I get older that there were many inconsistencies in what was preached and taught to me by people in authority and what they required me to do. The list of these is endless. I can't count the times that a principle was communicated corporately only to have a rule be applied that contradicted the principle because of my age or financial status....or my gender.

I call bulls***. I call bulls*** on all of that. I have slowly been learning how to separate the words of selfish men (women also but mostly men) from the God of love and redemption and look to only Him and the intellect of my OWN mind for answers. Sometimes these quests have been nothing more than me coasting through life offering aloud the words "Okay God, if you're really a thing.....if you're really real, then I'm gonna need for you to prove it because I see you absolutely nowhere in what is happening in my life". Time after time, the words and teachings of these selfish humans has been quieted and the truth has been more and more loudly reinforced that I am a creation of worth and beauty deserving of happiness and fulfillment. Even if you don't ascribe to any faith at all, that principle remains. Even if I was a happenstance that occurred when sperm met egg and the cells divided resulting in a successful full term pregnancy and healthy birth, it remains. I was supposed to be. So here I am. That is important because, in order for everything to work out for me to exist, I feel that must mean that the me that exists is supposed to contribute something to this world, and it is entirely possible that I am the only person that can do it.....and I want to.  I just keep getting hung up on the happiness thing.

So most recently, I have been given the assignment to pursue happiness. My understanding of that phrase was very very skewed until recently. I understood that you were supposed to sort of set things up (like a stunt) so that, when happiness hit, you were ready for it. You could enjoy it because you'd done the work to create a hospitable environment for "happiness to grow". That understanding is just really terrible. More holes in that one. A lot of them, actually. It actually removes from the equation the very word "pursue". This previous understanding actually implies that I actually just sit around waiting for it.

No. Let's pursue it. Let's engage. It is not a passive thought. It is a dynamic activity. You have to SEARCH for things that being you happiness, and, despite what I was taught for a lot of my life, I am not supposed to sit and cry and be sad that I'm a Christian and can't go do fun things that offer me a thrill. According to God, I'm supposed to chase that. God (or the universe, if you will) did not allow me to be so that I could lead a crappy life. It has taken me 33 years to realize that!

GOOD GRIEF!

So what will I do to pursue this thing of happiness? Well, for starters, when my husband (and that word is now really fun to say) does things like take out the trash or clean the kitchen without any help from me, I'm going to quiet the words of ugly men that told me that things like that were my job because I am female, and I'm going to exult in being the princess that I was created to me. When he reaches over and caresses me, I'm going to ignore the familiar absence of being touched and enjoy all my senses coming alive at being shown tenderness. When one of my children tells me a silly joke or shares with me part of their day, I'm going to cast away the remembrance that I have to be so far away from them now, and I'm going to give them my full attention and affection. And when I want to spend 2 hours manipulating wire hangers to create a decoration for our home or find some new makeup and play at changing and accentuating parts of my face, I'm going to do it - because these things bring me happiness. I'm going to breath in deep when I find the pleasant fragrance of a bloom. I'm going to bask in the sunshine when it kisses my skin. I'm going to take a compliment when it is given to me and choose to believe the deliverer that they actually mean what they've just told me.

I'm also going to actively seek things like this every day. If I haven't had a day with enough things like this is it, I'm going to FIND things. I'm going to pursue them. I'm going to chase them because that is what I'm supposed to have. That is what I deserve - a life.....and one more abundant.

.......ever after

No matter what we experience in our lives, there is always an after. After is a funny thing, isn't it? You never know what it's going to hold, but you know, as surely as you know there is blood in your veins, that there will be an after.

I'm in the after. Admittedly, there are things that I am still tackling. There are challenges that still exist in my life - a lot of them, but there are also things that I have already passed. They are over. I am in the after. The thing I find funny about this markation of the term "after" is that often I have found myself to dwell inside it and also within the before - within the event that marked the beginning of after.

The thing that has probably been the most difficult for me to leave in the before and engage the after is losing my dad. This is obvious. Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows this to be true about me. My dad was not perfect, by any stretch, but there were some amazing things that he communicated to me while I shared hours with him in this world. When his heart stopped and his lungs ceased to breath, when he lost an more ability to speak words to me, I was left.....wandering. I have felt so lost. There were many tasks that I completed and some very effectively, but that sense of belonging and security was gone.

After my dad died, as I have said, there were moments that I wanted so badly to engage my grief, and I was disallowed. There was that moment on the hill near the place into which they were going to lower my dad's coffin that I wanted so badly for someone to give me permission to grief - to fall apart. It became faintly clear to me at that time that I would not be afforded that opportunity. There were incidents later that reinforced that to me. It was very difficult at first to receive the communication that I would not be allowed to grieve, but after a short period, I resigned myself to the fact that I was not....so I did not. I entered the parts of my soul that were occupied by my memories with and of my dad, and, with fast work, I boarded up the windows. I covered up the furnishings with canvases so thick that even I would not be able to distinguish what lay underneath the coverings. I locked the door......but I kept the key. I never could bear to throw it away.

 I have walked past that room so, so many times since the day I imprisoned the contents, but every time I would reach into the pocket of my heart to grab the key, I never did more than hold it in my hand only to release it after the words played again in my mind to "SHHH!.....We've got to go......I've got to get some sleep".

But things have been changing for me, haven't they? I have been pouring truth into my soul, and, just like a heavy rain, it has washed away the shroud of dust and shined the leaves of the vines that cloaked themselves around the windows of this room. The truth that beauty exists within that room and the truth that I am allowed to enjoy that beauty and mourn the pieces of the things that are broken within it is shining through those windows.

Today......I put the key into the lock, and I turned it.....and I opened the door. It's funny how this room of my soul has changed after all this time. I recognize some of the things here as things that dwelt there originally, but surprisingly, I recognize things that I have acquired since the day that I locked the door.

See, the thing is that I never stopped adding things to my soul - even to that part. Though my dad's life on earth ended, mine did not. The truth is that you cannot successfully and truly separate a room in your soul. Somehow, though I was not aware, I was placing new things into that room.....because it is love. That room is my ability to love. I have added new people to that room. There are representations of my son and my youngest daughter. There are tokens of friends. There are framings of moments of love that were given to me by others. So strange to see these things here but so wonderful. It seems a shame to me now to see all the dust and the canvas drapings - the pictures turned around the wrong way and the unlit lamps.....so I won't leave them that way, but here is the very strange thing. I cannot disrobe these inhabitants of my room alone. I have to bring that girl on the hill with me. Actually, she will be the one that has to alter the room. I will watch, but I have to go get her.

The weird thing with pain is that it halts us. When we are victimized by trauma, if we are not allowed to escape it and move past it, that version of ourselves stays there. She is still there...on the hill...in the cold February air. She needs to be rescued. Poor girl. Poor hurting girl so alone (I bet you have your own girl or boy). The only person who can do that rescuing is me. The way I am going to provide that to her, the way I'm going to go to her, and I'm going to let you watch. I'm going to speak to her. I'm going to go to her.....right now.

Sarah......honey.......he's gone. They're going to put his body in that hole. I know you know that. I know it hurts because I am you, and I miss him every day. I want you to know something. A very selfish heart is going to do everything they can to quiet you. That heart will hurt you very much. They will make you feel so alone and so imprisoned. You are going to be very afraid. You will spend years being afraid. You are going to feel like you are totally alone.

I'm going to tell you something. You will never be alone again.....because I will be there. Any time that hateful heart tries to steal from you the time you need to be sad, I will be there, and I will tell that mean heart no. I will send them away. I will protect you.....and I will hold you...and we will both cry together. From now on, any time you want to cry, then I want you to cry. I will be there with you. Any time you want to ask questions about Dad, I will let you. I will let you ask any questions you want of any person that you want. I will let you remember the beauty too. In fact.......come with me....I have something to show you.

The day my music died

In 1959, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper changed their original travel arrangements from taking a sickness laden tour bus to hopping a small plane to reach their next tour destination. The plane tragically crashed killing all the passengers and the pilot. The day was February 3. Don McLean later recorded the song "American Pie" to commemorate the day and honor the burgeoning musical legends. The day was forever known after that as "the day the music died".

Life marched on for our country and for music, but it's true that it was never the same.

On February 3, 2007, the 48th anniversary of the terrible crash, my life came crashing to the ground. My own legend had met his end. That was the day my music died.

It was 2 days after my 25th birthday. My family was planning to get together that evening for my birthday dinner. I was laying in bed only half awake when I heard a knock at the door. I thought it was probably my dad. He often popped by. My parents had been having a difficult time right before that, and, being my dad's best friend, he often vented to me and asked my advice on how to deal with women - especially his.

I threw on my robe and walked into the living room and saw my pastor standing on the other side of the glass.

"Hi Sarah"
"Hi. What's up?"
"Sarah, where's your husband?"
"Um, he's in the bathrooom. He'll be right here. What's up?"
"Uh...(getting visibly uncomfortable)...no let's just wait until he gets out here"
"Okay"

My then husband finally came into the living room and my pastor instructed us to sit. It's funny. I will never forget where I was sitting or the way the early morning light streamed into the living room that I painted in a deep green shade. It all played together in that moment in the most surreal way. My pastor began to speak again.

"Sarah.....*sigh.....your dad got up this morning and (I started to mentally supply words for him feeling sure that he was going to tell me that my dad had moved out of the house - not able to take any more of my mom's menopausal moods....I was so, so wrong)...had a massive heart attack...(my mind raced demanding to know what hospital he was at but my mouth wasn't fast enough) and passed away."

"NOOOO!!!" I screamed. "Please! Please tell me this is a joke! This is a joke, right?! Please tell me it's a joke! I'll think it's funny. Please just tell me it's a joke."

I writhed around and screamed on the cushion of our love seat. My husband grabbed me and held on tight. "Shhhh" He said at first.

"PASSED AWAY?!" I thought. "What does that even mean?! He didn't pass away! He's DEAD!" This was all in my mind. All my voice could do was scream. My husband grabbed my head and whispered in my ear "Well now we know what we're going to name our son". I wasn't even pregnant, but I thought "Damn straight!".

Another strange thought that passed through my head as I battled through my outward hysterics: "Well at least I know now. I'll never have to lose him again. It's already over with, and I know how it ends".

In short order, we collected our 8 month old daughter and drove over to my best friends' house to leave the baby and then went to my mom's house. I burst through the door and demanded from the EMT's "Where is he?"
"Now, ma'am...I don't know if you should go up there. He looks.."
"NO! Where is my dad?! I want to see him now!"
"Ma'am, he's upstairs, but...."
I pushed past him and walked up the stairs to my parents' room. I reached the bathroom and saw him. He looked asleep. My mother was at his feet talking to him. My older brother was standing at his head. I dropped to his side and grabbed his hand.

Those hands. So strong. So able. So loving. In stark contrast to those of his own father, my dad used his hands to cradle my tiny baby body. The day I was born, he wrote a note to my mom with those hands that read "Now you've made my dreams come true; a boy for me a girl for you". He used them to hold my tiny little girl fingers and bend my hand to kiss it. He used those hands to fix all our cars and let me stand beside him and learn how to reach my skinny arms into the guts of a car and fix a serpentine belt. He built things with those hands. He used those hands to lovingly stroke my cheek or grab my tiny chin and hold me in his lap. He used them to hold my own little girl and tell me with his voice what a good job I'd done. So many handshakes. He shook so many hands. I always knew the value of a good, manly handshake, so very early in my life I abandoned the notion of prim handshakes and followed his example instead. "Shake their hand like Dad does" I always admonished myself. Those hands wrote many hours of computer code that ended up providing for our family. It was connected to a brain that was, in fact, brilliant. Those hands rested in the pockets of his khaki pants while he waited for me on the corner in front of his house after I took an unannounced walk out of my house 3 weeks after giving birth. No one knew where I had gone or where I was, but, while everyone else was out driving around looking for me, he just stood there on the sidewalk. He knew I would find him. He was my anchor. He just stood there until he saw me and then made a little half smile. His hands came out of his pockets and spread open. I ran the last few steps to him and collapsed into his hands. They held me up. They were strong enough. They were always strong enough.....and then it was gone. I thought of all of this while I knelt there holding them. I squeezed...a few times. ALL I wanted was for him to squeeze back. He was still warm. I just wanted him to squeeze back....but he never did. He never would again.

I kept waiting for him to pop his eyes open and laugh. I still wanted it to be an elaborate joke. I swore to myself that I would think it was funny. They stayed closed. I bent down and kissed his lips. I knew that would be the last time I would ever be able to do that again with any warmth left in them.

The next little while is a total blur of being ushered downstairs because they had to take "the body". The EMT's wheeled in a gurney and laid my dad atop it and covered it with the famed white sheet. The ambulance drove away silent.

In the days that followed, we accomplished many tasks and greeted many people. I sang at his funeral. My mom suggested that we let someone else do it, but I didn't feel anyone else was good enough - not that my singing ability exceeded theirs. It's just that the words therein and the man for whom the songs were being sung COULDN'T mean the same thing as what they did to me. I began each of them on the wrong note, but I finished both of them.

My world after that was so empty. Continuing with any happiness seemed like sacrilege. It still does.

My dad woke up that morning, greeted my mom and went into the bathroom to start getting ready for men's prayer breakfast at church. After just a couple minutes, my mom heard a thud. She called out to my dad and heard no answer. She rushed into the bathroom and found him slumped against the wall. His head had slammed into the wall in front of him, and his glasses had smashed into his face and broken the skin leaving a smudge of blood on the wall. She lowered him to the floor and tried to begin CPR on him while she screamed out for someone to call 911. As he lay in the floor, his green eyes were fixed...on her face - the face of the knockout red head that had made him so nervous 28 years before that he could barely muster the courage to ask her to go out with him giving her just enough time to say yes before he ran out the door of the Taco Hut in Harrison, Arkansas. The face of the woman who gave him a son and then a daughter.....and then another and then another son. The face of the woman who stood by his side while he made crazy choices for which everyone told my mom that she should just leave him. No. He was hers, and she was his. The face that had whispered "I love you" and so many other wonderful things over more years of his life than not. That was the very last thing upon which his eyes were fixed in this life - her face.

 My sister Hannah ran upstairs and tried.....so hard....to administer CPR. God love her little heart. It didn't work. It couldn't have. He was already gone. I think we were actually told that he was actually gone before his knees gave out causing him to collapse. She was 15.

Someone called 911, and EMS quickly confirmed that he was dead on arrival.

So we had a funeral. We had a burial. Dad had served in the Army, so he was buried at the National Cemetery in Chattanooga. They played "Taps" at his graveside. After the service, I saw the hole up the hill where they were going to put my dad. Everyone drove away, and I walked up the hill and fell to my knees in the grass and cried. I wanted so badly for someone to hold me and cry with me, but, though I had the company of one on my trek up the hill, no one held me. I was alone. He was gone, and I was alone. No one would ever provide rescue for me again in this life.

I would try to sleep, but as soon as I closed my eyes, I would see him laying there in the bathroom floor. I would gasp for air and sit up straight and cry. After receiving enough instruction to stay quiet because the one with whom I shared a bed had to work the next day, I learned how to cry more quietly....alone. I guess my quiet sobs continued to be to loud because I grew very familiar with being literally pushed out of the bed and told to go sleep on the couch. "He's in a better place. Just go to sleep". .....alone. I was alone, and he was in a better place - better for him - not for us.

Time after that is a bit blocked. I remember going on some trips. I remember people having birthdays and babies. I, in fact, had another baby - a boy. Noah Daniel - after my dad. Noah was actually born in the same room as my little brother, so I will never forget the day I had him being reminded by my mom that the last time we were in that room, my dad had been there. He was there again. I know he was. Noah was also born the same day as my dad's dad. His birth was a tribute in so many ways. Noah actually has a picture in his room of my dad, though he has never met him.

Eight years have passed. Eight years.

It is so strange to me that there has been eight years of life since then. I have been smacked in the face with the cruelty of this world so many times that I've lost count. I was so much less aware of this before losing my dad because he absorbed the full impact of so many of the blows or would wage full on war against whatever it was that attacked me. It has been a terrible reality to know how hard life actually hits with the absence of someone acting as a shield for you.

Now, though, now it's my turn. Now I'm the shield. I'm the defender of the innocent and downtrodden. I'm the strength.....but I will never stop feeling the loss. I don't think I'm supposed to. How wrong would it be for me to just pretend that there never was a song that played? That I am numb to the fact that it ceased to play? Music was important to my dad. Remember Madame Butterfly?

I'm at a loss and this post is just all over the place, but that's how grief goes. Another song that was my dad's favorite was "Free Bird". Funny how many parallels exist with the words and his life and his exit of this life. So......raise your lighters, everybody. Blow it up. See how long you can keep that flame lit. His burned for 48 years. Light it up.

For William Daniel Baker, Sr. September 23, 1958 - February 3, 2007....the day the music died.