Through the Valley

   "When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, it will become a place of refreshing springs." Psalm 85:6

  "It would make me happy if you'd call." Mom

   "Sometimes, when you are not getting the love you want, giving makes you think you will." Mitch Albom, The Time Keeper

  It's a gray, cool, rainy day. The kind of day where curling up with a good book makes sense. It's not something I've done lately but during some house cleaning, The Time Keeper landed on my bedside table. It's not the first time I've read it but re-reading a good book is always good. When I came across the above quoted line, my eyes stopped, frozen by words that leapt off the page into my heart.

  And I grieve.

  Old me would have called my mom back right away but the time for old ways is done. I've had to face the stark realization that, even if I did call, my mom would not be happy. 

  How very sad.

  But it is not my responsibility to make her happy, anyways. That's something only God can do. 

  And to be honest, I have no idea what to say. I wouldn't be working with the familiar script of all our other interactions. She talked, I stayed small and silent.

  I can't go back to the way it was. 

  Not now. 

  Not after everything that has happened. Especially since God's Truth has revealed the way of it all.

  It's not easy. Having a boundary. Or should I say, it's not easy keeping it in place. It feels unnatural, even selfish. But those are old voices: the ghosts of upbringing and marriage. 

  It's not that I don't care. I care deeply for a woman who is so ensnared by deception, she cannot do anything but resort to the old strategies, the old manipulations that once had me toeing the line. It must be confusing for an old woman that they are not succeeding.

  The old tactics aren't going to work because Jesus has drawn a new line. 

  There's that and I have nothing left to give, if giving requires me to be small. 

  That kind of giving is not an act of love anyways. 

  For either of us.

  

  

  

  

  

Time of Rest

     "Return, O my soul, to your rest; for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you." Psalm 116:7

  

  Imagine, if you will, the trees shimmering in crimson glory. All the shades of red from a delicate pink to deep magenta wrapped themselves in a mantle around the deep mossy greens and grays of tree bark. The rays of the morning sun, unusually warm for this time of year, bathed the landscape in flickers of gold and yellow that gave every single leaf its own halo. 

  The Muskoka chairs (or Adirondacks if you are American) provided pops of unnatural, fire engine red. 

  A heavy dew made the grass and rocks sparkle when you moved your head just so. It was like the stars had come to earth to rest for a bit before heading back into the sky come sunset.

  Autumn comes with its own fragrance. One that is impossible to describe but it smells wonderful!

  I was away this weekend at a women's retreat up in the Muskoka region of central Ontario. It's two hours north of here and the area has had a couple of light frosts. It takes frost to birth the reds that were everywhere. It was a beautiful place to be this time of year.

  The drawing was done in a little 3"x5" sketchbook that goes everywhere with me...even church. I spent a lot of time drawing. It helped ground me in the busyness and noise only a hundred and fifty (or so) women can make. The drawings also help cement a particular moment, like this one, that touched my artist's soul in a way a photo can't.

  I finished the sketchbook while I was there. It was started the end of March last year. The pages are full of images documenting the places I've been and prayers lifted to God. There are plenty of moments where pages have been filled with patterns and imaginary landscapes. 

  Attached to the back cover of the book is an envelope. I had no idea it was there until I tried to pull apart what appeared to be two pages stuck together. I asked the Lord what was in this empty envelope. He was quick to respond, as He always is. 

  It's anger.

  Then I put a small feather inside so the envelope wasn't empty any more, avoiding the issue altogether.

  But the time for avoidance is past. A friend, who knows what happened this summer with my step Dad, reminded me that anger is one of the five stages of grief. Her words gave me permission to feel this way.

  Why on earth did I need permission? That alone is infuriating! (Smile...isn't that ironic?)

  I don't like anger. Simply because anger unrestrained is so damaging. I've been on the receiving end of unjustified anger far too often. Oh. Does this mean that, sometimes, anger is justified?

  Perhaps.

  This is a conversation to have with my therapist for sure.

  And Cricket. The anger has been there a long time. 

  I never learned how to be angry without loosing complete control until I learned to control it all the time. Neither is healthy. Loosing control is awful. Maintaining an iron fist on my emotions is just as awful. But it's what I know. The control end of things, I mean. It's been decades since the anger got loose.

  Or has it? Has it appeared in passive aggressive comments? Negativity? Judgements? Bitterness? Depression? Despair? Withdrawal? Or in a thousand other ways I never realized?

  Ouch. That's a hard truth to swallow. Forgive me Lord for not realizing this before. 

 

  I am afraid to be angry, of loosing control and saying hurtful things...of being punished for letting it out...of what it will do to my own peace...and maybe there's some anger at God, too. But that is going to be a private conversation between us alone.

  Sometimes it's hard facing the truth about ourselves...