Author: Amelia

Finding My Laugh

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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I prayed a short prayer on my drive into work today.

“Please. Let nobody die today.”

I knew it wasn’t a good sign that I was already crying. On my way in. Sun shining, morning crying as opposed to dark sky, moon glowing crying. On my drive home. Ackk. I had already put my eye make-up on. It’s too early. I haven’t started my shift. I need to walk into work strong, ready, happy. Not fragile and sad.

I am supposed to arrive secretly clad in some form of protective armor hidden beneath my clothes. The kind of armor that is hard to get on. It’s tight, it grips my chest. I should feel it somehow and know it’s there even if nobody else does. Right up close to my heart. Always ready, or waiting. On guard, to help protect and defend me from the unpredictable and seemingly inescapable sadness that may seep in.

I keep driving. Hoping that maybe a happy song will come on my favorite radio station. Surely that will help. They usually seem to know when I’m in my car driving to or home from work.

Maybe if I could give a dollar and a Quiktrip gift card to the homeless man that stands and sings off of my exit on Hiway 71, that may be a good sign. A sign that it will be a day where there’s more smiling. And less dying.

Yesterday, I sat in a room playing with a child who laughed easily. Literally, on the ground, genuinely laughing at the silliest things. Like me popping bubbles with a plastic frying pan. He said, “I like laughing.” And I replied, “Me too.” He had no idea how tightly I would hold onto his innocent and spontaneous words.

Spoken freely, out loud.

Later, he didn’t want to go back with his parent because he wanted to hang out and walk around the halls with me. He told his mom, “I want to go back to that room with her. Because we both like laughing.” I wish I could have hung out with him and his sweet giggling self all day long.

But I couldn’t.

The day got hard. Really hard.

And I lost my laugh.

I kept reminding myself throughout my shift, in my head, “I like laughing.” Remember. If a little boy notices, it must be true. Because I do.

Hard. Belly hurting. Silly, big teeth, open-mouthed loud, almost obnoxious laughing. Near snorting, breath catching. That kind of laughing. It feels good. So good. It feels like the world still has a lot of happy left in it.

That boy reminded me that I’ve got to step outside from underneath the dark cloud of sadness some days. I’ve got to make a conscious effort. To find the light. I can’t let the small sliver of gloom consume me. Even though it’s impossibly hard sometimes.

I like laughing. I really love laughing. I told myself this. Over and over again. All day long.

But somehow I still managed to be in my car crying on the way home. Again. Sadness can be sneaky, yet strong and overpowering at times. Overwhelming. And tricky too. You can’t suppress it for too long or it will explode or change you. It will affect how you treat those who matter the most. It might make you forgetful or short-fused. Or unmotivated to get out of bed.

I laugh when something is funny. Even sometimes, when it may not be appropriate. Nervous coping mechanism. In church or meetings or all-too-serious of not-so-serious times. And I think I function best when I give myself the freedom to cry when something is sad. I have to find the right time and the right place. And just cry. Let. It. ALL. Out. It’s damn near impossible to hold back a dam of tears for long. I tell kids all the time, “it’s okay to cry.” I believe it. And it’s okay for adults to cry, too.

I didn’t need to cry today. And that made me so happy. So happy actually that I almost cried. The happy tear kind of crying. The grateful, humbled, overwhelmed smiling kind of short-lived crying. I got to leave work talking with a coworker about how I couldn’t remember where I parked. I got to notice gorgeous Christmas lights. I even noticed Pope Francis was trying to give me a high five from the catholic radio billboard. Or it may have been knuckles. I left work on time after talking and laughing with some of my favorite green zone girls. I feel honored, privileged and just giddy to leave work happy.

I love that place tonight. I really do. Somehow.

I drove up our driveway and saw our sweet little tree barely strong enough to hold its brightly colored lights. And I just could have cried. Again. But I didn’t need to. Not tonight. That tree looked so little, yet so beautiful and happy.

I will always remember that boy saying, “we both like laughing.” He reminds me of a tiny brightly lit tree that can barely hold the weight of the lights, yet somehow unknowingly offers perfectly timed hope and joy.

I like laughing. I really do.

Napping Boy

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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I hear you breathe. Deeply. In. And out. You told me you didn’t need to take a nap, you silly boy. I saw your head bobbing and your eyelids getting too heavy for you to hold open. Your fingers held onto the tiny toy in your hand. I made eye contact with you through my rear view mirror. Holidays can be exhausting. For kids and grown-ups alike. I carried you into the house. I may regret the decision to let you late-afternoon/early evening nap later on tonight.

But in this moment, I’m happy for your stillness. I’m grateful for your inability to defeat the nap monster. I’m perfectly peaceful resting with my eyes open. Right next to you. In moments like these, I’m overcome with love for you, my beautiful growing boy. No longer a baby. You’ve barely tiptoed past the toddler years. My preschool boy. Yet, still innocent and little enough that you fell asleep gently gripping the toy you played with right before your eyelids succumbed to the pillow.

You play hard. It’s nonstop. Going. Doing. Running. Hiding. Wrestling. Pretending. Building. Arguing. Crying. Giggling. You have the greatest dimples when you smile. And you ask a million questions a day. You want to know why residents at your great Grandma’s like to say “hi” to you or touch your hair. You want to know why elephants have such big ears. You even ask hard questions about God and Jesus that I don’t know the answers to. Like why did God make rats. You’re curious. And smart. And alive. So alive.

I’m constantly amused, perplexed and grateful for the thoughts that readily exit out of your tiny mouth. I miss your sweet voice when you sleep. I miss you saying things like, “when my eyes get hot, they cry.”

I love you when you’re sleeping. Because I can stop and think on all of the beautiful reasons why I love you So incredibly much when you’re awake. It’s easy to forget sometimes or get short-fused and distracted by the busy monster and your endless energy. But it’s really what I miss the most when you’re gone or I’m gone or while you dream.

Wake up soon, my long eyelashed, perfectly beautiful sleeping boy. There’s a toy in your hand, ready to be played with the moment you awaken. And there’s a mama, a daddy and two brothers that have missed you. While you were napping.

2015: 95 Blogs

~ Amelia ~ 4 Comments

I am thankful for you. Yes, you. The one reading this. It can be tricky navigating the world wide web. That’s right, the big ole’ “www.” It’s just plain crazy sometimes to think of others out there taking the time to read something that I wrote. Me. Silly old scatter-brained me. I know that time is so precious. Your time is valuable. But for a reason that may never be known to me, you have chosen to use a little of your time to read my blog. I truly appreciate you. For reasons that I will try to explain but I warn you, I may fail miserably.

Over the past year of blog posts, I have shared ridiculous bra stories or children stories or work stories or disease stories. In sharing my writing, I have opened a window and sometimes a door to a piece of my heart. And you have responded. Perhaps you somehow related to my feelings. Some of you have reached out to me. You have shared the most genuine and kind-hearted sentiments. You have shared a piece of your life with me. In doing so, we connected. You, perhaps unknowingly, have helped me heal from mothering blunders, work sadness, disease frustrations, and many other life lessons.

If ever something is going to be happy, silly, hard, painful, frustrating, debilitating, hopeful or sad, it’s best to learn and grow from it. The best way to learn and grow from experiences is to have others surround you. To cheer you on. To hug you. To encourage you. To relate with you. To cry with you. To laugh with you. To tell you the hard stuff gets better. To help you feel less alone.

I’ve always tried to find the good in the bad. No matter what. This can be extremely challenging sometimes in life. For all of us. Sometimes the good seems so light in comparison to the heaviness of the bad. The good can feel so fleeting, in fact, that it seems to disappear altogether. At times. It’s always there. It can get trapped behind the dark heavy shadows of gloom.

You will always be one of my many something goods. Because you’re a first responder. You’re here. You care. You matter to me. Even if I’ve never met you. You have encouraged me in gigantic ways. Thank you for believing in me.

Cheers to next year. Because….Something’s still burning.

 

WordPress sent me the link below. It was pretty humbling. And makes me proud to have such supportive friends.

 

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 38,000 times in 2015. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 14 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Jesus in the Hospital

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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The thing is that even the most perfect looking, smartest acting, kindest-hearted person has weaknesses. Imperfections. Insecurities. Despite how camouflaged they may appear. Depending on the environment they are in, they exist. Hidden perhaps. Buried maybe. Tucked away in a cabinet or in the closet. On the surface even. You absolutely cannot be walking around this world perfect. So, why do we try so hard to look like we’ve got our acts together? Countless reasons.

I used to carry a sense of shame with having these most awful, disgusting things happen with my body. I was afraid to talk about them. Like I had any control over their path of destruction. You know if diseases were ranked upon their social accepted-ness, I’m quite certain that irritable bowel diseases would not be on the swimsuit cover of “Diseases Illustrated.” Seriously. Let’s just list some of the things I have experienced which in no way compare with what other IBDers are dealing with, specifically kids with Crohn’s and Ulcerative Colitis. See what your natural reaction is to some of these: bloody, foul smelling diarrhea. Extra holes connecting one part of your body to a part that it shouldn’t. Think of your sewer pipe connecting to the water line of your shower.  Going on inside your body. Your small intestine coming out of your body. A daily reminder that your body will not ever be like most everyone else. Wounds opening up so wide that you need a vacuum to suck your skin back together. For weeks and weeks. Not eating for weeks. Tubes in your nose. Tubes in your abdomen, vagina, and butt. Completely raw broken down skin that hurts so badly you can’t leave your house. Not that you even wanted to. Just wanted the choice. Then there’s the worrying about going to some awesome new place because you don’t know if or where the bathroom will be.

I could go on and on. I don’t like to. I don’t think I need to. Though I don’t want anybody’s pity. Pity parties are so lame and never have quite the turn-out you expected. I don’t wan’t to be treated differently. Unless by differently you mean more encouragement, more understanding, more tolerance, more willingness to learn. I want to walk in confidence and know that I am loved for who I am. Not what I have. Not what I look like. Not even for what I have endured.

I was 18. And scared. And so close to dying. But my damn pride and stubborn immature self wouldn’t let the surgeons do what they needed to do to save my life. I had no quality of life. I was wasting away, bleeding so much that I needed transfusions. I  had not eaten in over a month. But, I was damn sure that I didn’t want to get an ostomy bag. People wanted to help. I didn’t want to listen. They couldn’t possibly know. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do with a bag because you don’t know. You don’t have one.” That’s how I felt about every person that came into my hospital room with their pitch as to why I should get my entire colon removed.

Until one day. In walks a guy I babysat for. I loved him. He was hilarious and he was a real live person sitting across from me, telling me that he had an ostomy bag. He got sick when he was 18. He went to college, got married, and had these four amazing girls. And all of the sudden, I felt this enormous sense of relief. He knew what I was going through. He knew what I could do. Hell yeah, I could still play college basketball. He played college intramural football. And his nickname was “Bags.” Take that.

That’s what I love so much about Jesus. He came because we needed him. Desperately. A real live person. We are so hurt, broken, imperfect, dying. If we admit it. We are all missing pieces. And he came in the most radical way, as if to say, “I’m coming to the people who recognize they need me. The weak ones.” All of us. If you’ve got your shit so together, if you’re playing the role of ever strong, über dependent, got this life figured out, you don’t need Jesus. You don’t need grace. Or healing. Or forgiveness. Or love that is so powerful it comes to your hospital room when you’re mad at the world. It walks in and says, “hey. I’m like you. I get it. This world can really suck, but we can make it better. We can change it.” One hospital room at a time.

A little hope goes a long way. It’s easier to see Jesus in the hospital and to need him. But the thing is, I need him just as much at home. My pride just sneaks in again. And I think I got this. By myself. All alone. Hold up, pride. Sit down.

It takes a village. But not a village of people with their arms crossed, bitchy faces and pursed lips. Thinking they don’t need anyone. Especially not someone like you helping them, guiding them, showing them love. I want to go to the village of open arms and smiles and tears. We laugh together. We cry together. We live life together. Not hidden. Open. Exposed. But it’s kind of scary. And you have to be that really hard word to say, “vul-nur-uh-bul.” Why does it have to be such a hard word to say and an even harder thing to be? Vulnerable. Vulnerable. It doesn’t get easier if you say it or spell it a lot of times. However, it does get easier, kind of like apologizing, if it becomes a practice. A habit. If I could only be vulnerable as often as I bite my nails.

Actually, that might be going overboard.

The thing I’ve learned is that people have opened up and shared really hard, painful stuff with me. And I feel honored and inspired and more connected. Like we’re all experiencing some of the same things.  Like we are much more alike than we are different. It’s like our batteries are charged by each other. Like God created us for each other, to need each other. Help each other. Work our hardest to understand each other. And try our hardest, despite our selfish tendencies, to show love to one another.

I see Jesus people all the time. They don’t even know they’re doing these miracles. Tiny, dignity restoring, life-giving miracles. Miracles that connect us. Miracles that help us know of this insanely powerful love. A love so strong that it barges through the darkness and let’s light seep in. It’s here. I see it all the time. When I’m watching others help strangers with a love so passionate. You can feel it in your bones. And I see it the most when I’m down in the dumps. Feeling needy. Dependent. Not myself.

But slowly, the love pulls me out. Picks me up. And gives me a good nudge. The kind that makes me want to do more. Hope more. Feel more. And care for others more. I would like to think that we all carry this secret power. We just tap into at different moments in our lives. Sometimes intermittently.

This is why I get excited for Christmas. For the lights. Everywhere. Because of the enormous amount of love and sacrifice and forgiveness and grace that the humble babe born in a stable represents. He lives on in each of us. Here. Now. Really. If you start looking, you’ll soon notice there are Jesus people everywhere. In the places you would least expect them to be. Doing these beautiful powerful acts that have the abilty to change the world.

Christmas can be a time of hope, exhaustion, sadness, joy, and a sleigh packed full of many other emotions. It’s celebrated one day a year but the people that are the lights that represent Christmas continue to shine all year long.

Mall Playplace Mama

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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As my son played inside the mall playplace on a dreary fall day, I looked around. My phone was in my purse. I was casually in observation mode. Sometimes when my kids are happily playing at a park or wherever and I’m on a bench or in the grass, I watch all of the kids play. Instead of reading, writing or checking Facebook or Instagram. I try not to stare, but I rather inconspicuously watch moms, dads and nannies too. I try and figure things out. Relationships. Personalities. Potential jobs. The kind of parent somebody is. The kid dynamics. All in the midst of supervising my children from a safe distance. Of course.

Today, I watched as most parents stared down at their phones. I watched two sisters attack each other to the ground. Whoopsie. One tried to bite the other one and then the inevitable tears and crying erupted. I watched as kids jumped, slid and ran around frantically. It’s like they all intuitively knew it was a soppy wet, dreary day outside and they should quickly expend as much energy as possible. Right here. Right now. For fear of boredom setting in later. Leave it all on the floor of the mall Playplace.

Then, I saw you. So I wrote you this letter in my head. I wish I could have given it to you. Somehow in a non-stalker, non-awkward way.

Hey Mall Playplace Mama:

I glanced over and saw you relaxed, snuggling your happy crawling baby. His giggles proved that he adored the game that you played. Snuggle him close, hold him up to your face and kiss him. Then, release him. It was a beautiful display of love. I looked away. What I really wanted to do, without interrupting you, was borrow your phone and take a picture or a video of your candid genuine mother-son interaction. One day you could look back on the video and recognize that love. And what a phenomenal mother you are. You’re a natural. If you didn’t already know it. It may seem creepy. Since I don’t know you. But I can just tell. I meet a ton of moms. I know your kids will grow up and thank you. In a million different ways. 

You’re only focused on what’s in front of you. Holding, hugging and stealing kisses. I’m pretty certain they know they’re the most important people in the world. In your arms. Your eyes gaze into each one of your children’s eyes. You’re so engaged in the present moment. And you hold your older girls just as beautifully as your baby. They laugh. And love every moment of your one-on-one affections. 

I must be hormonal because I don’t know you, but I want to cry. I want to tell you how amazing and rare you are. I’m pretty sure your praises come in the form of three little ones jumping on and off of your lap. Constantly. Their tiny important world revolves around you. They play independently and get along well with others. I heard one daughter ask you if she could take her socks off. She pointed to another child with her socks off. You calmly stated, “I’m not her mom. I’m yours. You need to keep your socks on.” And your daughter didn’t argue or pout or throw a fit. She listened. And continued to play. That’s huge.

I don’t know you. But I recognize your love. I’ve seen it on the faces of mothers before. My grandmother’s. My mother’s. My sister’s. Mothers who are my friends. Mothers who I work with. And mothers just like you, that I’m lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time with. I’ve observed moms like you interacting with their kids at parks, playgrounds, baseball fields, grocery stores, everywhere. Thank you for being the kind of mom that inspire us all to love stronger, hold tighter and be engaged in the moments right in front of us. Maybe I will see you at the mall Playplace again someday. And maybe I will be brave enough to tell you what a beautiful mother you are. Keep mothering on. The world is better because of mamas like you.

From,
The unintentionally-creepy-intermittently staring inspired mom (whose kid didn’t want to snuggle, but did want to jump off of every piece of play equipment)

A Clean Toilet.

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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Dammed if you do, damned if you don’t. I can start my own IV. Pack and unpack my wounds. Irrigate and try to unclog my own small intestine. I can do a lot of hard, gross medical stuff. I couldn’t a long time ago, not at first, but I had to learn how to deal with the chronic and post-surgical crap. When it didn’t all go away. Because I didn’t want to keep needing others, partly because it’s hard to be strong sometimes. And it’s embarrassing. It’s a tricky art predicting and accounting for the feelings of those you love so much. It’s hard to be the reason they’re sad, frustrated or pissed. It’s hard to carry the weight or handle their sympathetic reactions when you’re feeling pretty weighed down. You know it hurts them. To see you sick, and not yourself. Laying down. Not laughing, and sometimes with the tubes coming out everywhere. Filling bags with fluids.

I can get inside my own head most times and work things out with this disease and God. But it’s hard to work things out for good inside the heads of those who want to take it all away. Make it disappear. Who would take on the shit for a day. A week. Or even longer, maybe even forever, to give me a break. Though I would never let them. I love them too much. And I’ve gotten to be pretty good at dealing with hard stuff. I know that it’s shaped me for better too. Most days.

I was trying to play soccer with my boys today. On an unseasonably warm December day. I was hurting. But we were having so much fun. Laughing. High fiving each other, up-high and down-low. My boys’ ecstatic reaction to my unexpected backwards kick into the goal made me feel like a soccer magician. Even though I’m not. The sun began setting, painting the sky a million shades of beautiful. I made my boys pose for a picture because it was unbelievably spectacular. Maybe I would want this picture, this memory captured of the fun we had. And the Kansas sunsets behind 69 Hiway are just the best.

My boys begged to stay. “Please.” Times three. I didn’t want to leave. I was hurting pretty bad when I ran. I told them we needed to walk home so I could go to the bathroom. They asked why I couldn’t just go in the woods like them. My best response was, “it’s not that easy. I don’t have a penis.” It kind of worked, along with the promise of a drink and snacks. My kids will play forever without food or a drink if they’re having a good time. They have some secret energy reserve or an auto-pilot play mode switch in their brains.

When you’ve been the center of unwanted attention or altered other’s plans too many times because of a disease you didn’t ask for, you try to tough things out. Grin and bear it. Or just get silent and focus on others around you. Until the pain gets better or gets to be too much. You don’t want to be short-fused or unkind like a hurt animal, growling or snapping to protect yourself. You just want to feel normal. You just want others to know how to shake up the perfect magic cocktail of sympathy, positivity, strength and compassion. With maybe a squeeze of resilience. And add some humor around the rim of the glass. It’s a tough order to fill.

Tonight, I hurt. I couldn’t get past it. I wanted to help put my boys to bed. All of them. I wanted to because I’m worried. I fear that I may have to vanish to the hospital in the night. When I’m feeling this way. Ironically, in these moments, I crave the simple, the things that on other days can seem exhausting and irritating. Same ole. Bedtime rituals. Boys fighting over who gets to sit next to me on this side and that. Whose book I will read first. After they brush their teeth. “Have you brushed your teeth, yet?” The little, yet meaningful and habitual love expressions that my boys spill. All over the place. For me, their humbled and grateful hurting mama.

I’m worried because it’s not a good time to go to the hospital. I have to help with a preschool cookie party tomorrow. And our house is a complete disaster from redoing our floors. Man. Oh man. There’s SO much laundry. SO much. And the toilets aren’t clean.

That’s one of the hardest things about chronic illness. It doesn’t seem to ever strike at a “good time.” Because there never is a good time. It’s always the untimely and uninvited house guest. Knock. Knock. Barge in. There’s never a good time to be separated from your family by an illness and the distance to the nearest hospital. There’s never a good time to miss out on any precious moments that you didn’t choose to miss out on. No matter how big or small. There’s never a good time to have an NG tube shoved up your nose and down your throat. If I could put one down myself I would. I think my gag reflex is too strong. And I’m too weak. There are things that I just can’t do. Maybe one of my nursing friends could teach my husband how to do it. Then, I wouldn’t have to lay here wondering if I need one. Or if I need to go to the hospital. If I start throwing up.

I cleaned the toilet in case I need to throw up in it. I even put some eucalyptus oil. I started a load of the boys laundry. It’s my way of jinxing a trip to the hospital. It makes me feel a little better that they may have some pants to wear to school in the morning. They just have to be moved to the dryer.

Hopefully, I will be there to help get them ready for school. And I will have a different attitude than I did yesterday. An “I get to….”do it instead of a “I have to….” do it attitude. After all, I could be sitting in a hospital room longing to be home. No matter what this disease takes away, I want it to know that it always gives me more. It helps me see what matters. Often, right in front of my face. And most of the time, it pushes me to appreciate and cherish, not complain about the routine. Habitual. Because really its the best, the most important. The simple and beautifully boring things that most days I have the privelege of doing.

A small cup of coffee, please.

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

I didn’t want a free cup of coffee. I wanted to buy a small cup of coffee. I stood in line holding my four year old who insisted on “wearing” his enormous fleece Superman blanket into the store. I looked disheveled, like I had just gotten my kids to school late. Because I had. My hair was in a ponytail. No make-up. Had I even brushed my teeth yet this morning? Nope. I wore my husband’s winter coat. It’s warm and long enough for my arms. And it’s big on me.

You didn’t know all of this when I came into your store, but if you glimpsed briefly at me, as a woman, as a mother,  you could probably see a little bit of my morning struggle. On my face. This is not meant to be a pitiful story. It’s actually meant to show you the power of a small gesture. Recognizing, relating or even sympathizing with another human being. I used to work at a coffee shop too. I met all sorts of people, like you. Rude people. Entitled people. Dramatic-over-coffee people. People-that-didn’t-want-to-give-me-the-time-of-day-but-wanted-to-bark-their-nonfat-order-at-me kind of people. Then, there were the regulars. The smilers. The tippers. The ones who cared. The ones who made the job meaningful. The buy me a graduation present kind of loyal customers. The encouragers over a cup of coffee. The ones who totally made up for the mean ones.

Today, when I got up to the front of the line, I looked down into my wallet to recognize that my debit card was not there. It’s not a sad story. This time. It wasn’t stolen. I knew exactly where it was. If you seemed like you cared, I may just tell you too much. I left it by my bedside as I ordered online Christmas presents last night. Then, I remembered to move the elf. Whew. Then, morning came too soon. As it always does. Our house is under demolition. Our kitchen is under U-haul blankets. Not a sad story. Our floors our getting redone. Our choice. Just a temporary inconvenience. Our children have handled the chaos in stride. Like completely awesome, flexible, resilient, adaptable children do.

Last night, we family grocery shopped because I couldn’t eat fried crap again. My kids picked out their own kind of apple to buy. The meat slicer gave my boys a free slice of cheese. They rode the horse at the front of the store at the end of our trip. Then, we went home and ate upstairs in our bedroom around a kids table. Like we have been the past week or so. Like it was the coolest thing ever. Not a big bother. Because that’s what kids do. Look for the fun, the exciting, and the best in even the most inconvenient of circumstances.

I left the front of the line and sat my bundled boy down on a chair to search in my purse for something I knew wasn’t there. I did find a giftcard to your coffee shop and checked the balance, as my four year old sat wrapped in his blanket. One of the three of you could have come over at this point and said, “Hey, we will get your coffee this time.” I may not have even taken you up on the offer because of my pride and embarassment. Or maybe I would have told you how I only live a few minutes away and I will come right back. Because I would. I would have left you a big tip too. And you may have even had a new regular.

Instead, when I learned that the giftcard had only $2.86 on it and I could get my patient and flexible and understanding boy a chocolate milk, then I did just that. I didn’t buy myself a coffee because I would have been short maybe seventy-five cents. If you would have offered me a cup of coffee, I would have potentially cried. Because you noticed. And cared. But you didn’t. So, now I have a giftcard with a little over a dollar on it to a coffee shop that I most likely will never go back to.

I will eventually find my debit card and get a cup of coffee today. I will go somewhere else. I know I probably shouldn’t have even bought the chocolate milk, because my pride was freshly bruised, but we do things, pride-swallowing things for our kids. All the time. Because they matter more, more than my embarassment or pride. And they definitely matter more than a small cup of coffee.

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Free Will Happens

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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Sometimes I feel out of place. Like I’m supposed to be somewhere else. Doing something different. Something more.  I’m typically pretty realistic and tend to look for and often find the positive in my present situation. Whatever it may be. I think I have a hard time with complacency or stagnant waters. I believe that God intends to ignite a spark, a flame or a fire in our hearts.

Through the gift of the people we experience, God opens our eyes. Changes our perspective. God’s presence sometimes rests on our shoulders. He holds our hands. God carries us too. I also believe God nudges us in our side. In that sensitive spot. Ouch. Sometimes it hurts a little. It gets my attention. And causes me to stop. Wait. Think. Then, figure out why he’s nudging me. Oh yeah. Because I’ve been given a crud ton. Maybe I was clueless, greedy or ungrateful. Maybe I need to do more. Sometimes the nudges go away because I get distracted. Or I purposely ignore them. “Not now, God. Bad timing.” Other times, I get lost in translation. What do you really want me to do, God? Something more. Something different. Something harder. More uncomfortable. It’s a God sort of spiritual growth spurt. And it tends to happen when you’re least expecting it.

Generally speaking, it’s not that comfortable when people, whether it’s our friends, coworkers, family, children or spouses inconvenience us. Somewhat encourage or even force us to adjust, adapt or change. It’s a whole other story when we clench our fists and refuse to be moved or adjusted or altered by our faith. I’m having a hard time accepting the idea that we don’t want to be inconvenienced by what our faith calls us to do. Unless it has to do with ridiculousness like red cups or leggings. We’re nudged to do something about the sad. The painful. The broken. The uncomfortable. The life altering.

We just hate to be re-routed from our destination, even if it’s nowhere near the place God has planned for us to go. We want to put a future location or specific goal or set of circumstances in our Google life map and we just want to get there. Instantly. And on our own. Until we need help. Because we think we know best. But we don’t. And when shit happens that we’ve caused, we blame God. In addition to the “SHIT HAPPENS” bumper sticker, I think there should be a bumper sticker that says “FREE WILL HAPPENS.” So I made one.

I feel like our response to the obstacles, the detours, and the re-routing of our hearts and aspirations is what faith is all about. You can’t pencil in “have faith today at 4:00” onto your calendar. That’s not really faith at all. What if Jesus failed to plan ahead for the unexpected? Oh, wait. What if he chose not to stop, notice, empathize and spend time with those who needed him most? Of all people, he could have claimed he was too busy. He had a lot of prophecies to fill in a short amount of time. His life showed us that we’re all worthy of God’s unconditional love, overflowing grace and transformation. Every single one of us. Everywhere.

If a relationship doesn’t change you or exfoliate you or push you towards growth, what is the point? In the end. Besides being a couch. Just a comfortable resting spot. I want a faith that opens my eyes and sometimes elbows me and challenges me to engage in a life-adjusting, humbling, uncomfortable kind of love that exists. A love that often hides in the most broken places. But it’s somehow so beautiful when you’re a part of it. It’s a connection, a love that we all crave and would go to great lengths to experience.

If we could only take the time to be purposely inconvenienced. Free will happens. You have the choice to use yours for good, for loving others, in seemingly small ways and gigantic ways too. It can be uncomfortable but that’s usually a good sign. A sign of growth. And growth is good.

 

The Monday Feels

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

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I walked into my closet. And sat down against the wall. I was officially overwhelmed. And I didn’t want to cry in front of my boys because I knew it might be hard to stop. I predicted it had the potential to be one of those downpours where it didn’t even matter if I had an umbrella. A lost cause. Between the wind and the crazy overwhelming tears coming from all directions, I knew I would be a mess. Drenched. I thought I should just try and be apathetic. Seemingly unphased on the surface but literally crumbling underneath. It’s a struggle. When everything seems to be happening at the same time. Mondays are just plain hard. On the body. All around.

I wake up and feel so exposed, unclothed and vulnerable because I don’t have to push down the feelings and pretend like the painful stuff doesn’t hurt. Not anymore. Outside of the walls of work, I am free to hurt. And be so sad. And pissed. And then damn sad again. My roles quickly change as I kick off my work shoes in the garage and enter the doors of my house. On Monday morning. At 2:00 am. In a few short hours, a healthy eager boy will need to get to school early. I want to talk with him and hug him longer before I drop him off and he walks up the stairs to his first grade classroom. There’s a sick boy that needs me at home. At the kitchen table, he handed me pictures he made for me while I was at work. I love his giving heart. I love that he draws pictures for me when I’m gone. He always wraps them up and tapes them together like a package. I love how excited and proud he is for me to open them.

I want to cry. Because I’m so happy to be home. I hate that I can’t be emotionally available yet. I feel so weak. And tired. Physically and emotionally. Thankfully, I have a husband whose compassion and patience for me overflows, especially on Mondays. Somehow it never runs out. He hugs me. It’s hard to hug him back because I don’t want to fall apart. Yet.

This work doesn’t make piles of laundry disappear. It doesn’t help the stacks of bills get magically paid. It doesn’t buy fancy vacations. It’s perks are few and include a discount that you don’t want to need to use. It’s a job that forces a continual reexamination of my faith in God and humanity. It strongly encourages the necessary prioritizing of what matters most and on some days, it triggers the unraveling of my heart. And as I pick up the string and slowly wind it back up, I feel overwhelmed. For good, really good, like gratitude-that-hurts kind of good. For my family. My home. My perspective. It overwhelms me for the uncomfortable too though. It makes it hard to fit in sometimes, hard to hold my tongue when someone says something so unimportant or worries about something that just doesn’t matter. When you’ve seen the wounded. The raw. The so completely and uncomprehensibly painful. And you wonder how will they ever pick up all the shattered pieces. When everything stops flying through the air. And you hope and pray that they have people that will stick around long enough to help them learn to fit all of the pieces back together. Somehow. The most important pieces. When I’m home, its difficult to just turn off my thinking and my feelings. I think if its ever too easy, or too comfortable then I will leave. Just quit. Some things should never be easy.

Today, instead of unraveling completely, I gave myself some time to process. Just to feel. On the ground in my closet. Then, I took a shower. A long one. Then, I made a promise to those I’ve worked with and myself that I will love abundantly, forgive constantly and appreciate the moments with those I missed all weekend. I will try my hardest. Because I’m here now. Today I owe the ones in front of me my focused yet imperfect, unconditional and overwhelming love. They get to have all of my Monday feels.

Full Moon

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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There are thunderstorms. A lot of them happen right here in the midwest. We hear the sirens. Take cover. We anxiously or routinely wait it out. Feeling the thunder, winds and rain beat down.

There are winterstorms. We occasionally get a few of these in the midwest too. Crazy amounts of snow and ice dumped in a short amount of time. Everything quietly blanketed in bright white. Snow shoveling galore.

And then, there is a whole different kind of storm. It’s a kind that even the most accurate meterologist cannot predict. You can’t take cover. You have to work through it despite the damage it may cause.

These are the shitstorms.

They tend to happen most of the time at work. Especially if you work in the hospital setting. You can casually clock into work and have no clue what the next twelve hours will bring. You may have a feeling, but there are often no signs outside of the hospital to warn you of the impending doom. The heinous stressful atmosphere inside. Somedays, you would be willing to put your paycheck on the fact that it will be a full moon tonight. You walk outside at the end of your shift and look up. Case in point. Hello there, you big bright moon.

There’s no announcement. No watch. No warnings. No code. And no denying the full force of the shitstorm touching down inside of the walls of the place you don’t like today. Not at all. You actually decided you hate it. You hate it’s sole existence. It doesn’t matter how many brightly colored murals and amusing elevator animals decorate it’s many walls. It’s an easy place to hate on days like today. When you’re caught smack dab in the eye of a shitstorm. Stuck with some of the biggest hearted, most self-sacrificing people you know. And also some of the most vulnerable and dependent children and families. You wish you could protect them all. And if every work day was like today, you would just take cover and never come out. Ever. You would clock out for the last time. It really doesn’t make any kind of sense that you can love a place that you hate so much. And still come back. Over and over. Again. And again.

But you will come back tomorrow.

Today you’ve had many opportunities to master the art of compartmentalizing. Sadly, you’ve created several new compartments. You’re strangely equipped and fully capable of walking into one happy alive room then quickly switching gears as you close the door and walk the halls to slowly open the door to an eerily silent room. It’s what you have to do. Keep going. Don’t feel that feeling.

Especially that one feeling.

Chest throbbing emptiness smothered in disbelief and surreal sadness.

How could you not go home and immediately search for another job? Like tonight. Maybe stocking the shelves somewhere. Serving kids somewhere else. Some place where nobody cries. Some place where no one screams. Or bleeds. Or dies. A place where horrible accidents and non-accidents don’t happen. A place. Any place. Somewhere else.

You’re still close to happy-tear-crying grateful. Because you’re in good company. You’re constantly rescued by the familiarity and love for the people who you have briefly talked with today. Your coworkers. Held captive in the storm with you. You’ve gotten to make eye contact, subtle faces back and forth. Eyes that could say a million words. And express a hundred different emotions. In just one glance. It’s solidarity at it’s finest. Strength, love, comraderie and hope shoved down, yet not buried beneath the darkness. You will find it later. You have to. It’s still there. Always.

It can be hard to break past the debris, the damage, the misplaced, scattered, torn and the forever lost. The forever changed. The anger. The sadness. Disbelief. Disgust. Pain. The unexplainable.

You have the intermittent overthinking moments. Wresting with the overwhelming feeling of trying to lift the invisible gargantuan weight of another’s pain. And knowing that you can only do so much. Or so little. You can’t reveal that sometimes it’s too difficult to carry. Not here. Not yet. Switch gears again. Focus on stopping the heavy incessant thoughts of your own world outside of these walls.

There’s a constant struggle with hospital work. It’s internal. A good versus evil tug-of-war going on inside of your heart. And in your head. Throughout the days. And nights. A brain overfilled with thoughts. A heart bursting with emotions. Temporarily tied up. It’s bulging at the seams. When you drive home, you will began to untangle the knotted twine capturing the feelings that have not been felt yet. It often gets messier before you get the knots out. You know you should try to feel the feelings now. While you’re in control. Outside of the walls. While everyone sleeps.

You survived. Again. Most will not know tomorrow what you’ve endured these past two shifts. Because you will do what you’ve learned to do. Cope. Compartmentalize. Keep on keeping on. And hope for tomorrow. Then wake up to a new day with a post-shitstorm perspective. Grateful and readily available to engage in the life-filled moments with those you love the most. Because you’re resilient. You’re a survivor. And for today, the shitstorm is over.