Learned Lesson Number Twelve: Home Is Not Four Walls

Last year I lost a house, for the fifth time in as many years. The first of these was the house my children mourned losing, the one their father had provided. Beautiful and large, it was the center of where their friends and their lives revolved. I think they mourned the loss of that home at least as much as the departure of their father, who, after choosing his new wife, moved to another house in another state, with another’s children. So nothing felt more urgent to me than providing a real home for my children, whom he had left behind. My resolve and my faith in my ability to achieve this, as their mother, was unwavering. It was my reason for being; finding a home base, where my children would feel safe. I knew they needed to not feel like they were losing everything. And thus the journey toward "home" began.

Year One: a rental, just outside the orbit of familiar people and places, but the only place I could get. Displaced Homemaker, no marketable skills. WalMart job, shattered credit rating. The house was too small. My boys lived in the garage, and would not go to church or school. Faith being central to my survival, I feared my children would lose whatever level of religious faith they had acquired up to that point, so Year Two brought a lease-to-own, closer to their schools and our church. A Good Mother knows the value of the influence of church-going friends and the comfort of being at familiar schools. One year later, I lost the down-payment when I was unable to qualify to purchase the house. Two of my sons had dropped out of high school, and none were attending church. My youngest son had anger and anxiety issues that forced me to withdraw him from public school, and my own educational plans were put on hold. Yet I pressed on in my quest.

Year Three: nanny job with rental house, slightly rural area. More money, but situation with my children deteriorating further, partly due to their father’s unsuccessful attempt to spirit them away. Year Four, nanny job ends, finding us back in our old neighborhood, in a far-too-tiny rental. No credit check required. One side effect of moving a large family out of a large house into increasingly smaller houses is that the amount of stuff that follows, and therefore needs to be managed, seems increasingly larger. By this fourth and smallest house, I felt like a hoarder with all the boxes of STUFF stacked around me. It was memories mixed with junk, and it drained the life out of us all, but I did not have the emotional fortitude to go through it and decide what did and did not matter. Let alone the resolve to throw those things out.

The fifth and final house in this progression would surely be the home that saved my children. Yet another lease-to-own; down-payment forfeited when the deal went south. It turns out, those who require no credit check are often shady themselves, and this was proven to me painfully when I realized how completely I had been ripped off. Alimony running out, most of my children having moved out, and a houseful of stuff which I could not afford to maintain. Two years shy of completing my college degree, and most painful of all, I had failed to make my children a home. They were finding homes of their own. For me, this was Rock Bottom. No money, no job, no home, and no idea why I had failed so miserably. As a mother, as a wife, as a woman. I was in total despair.

I put the stuff in storage, dragged my exhausted self and my youngest son to Utah, and moved into my parents’ home to take refuge. This is where the healing and the epiphany began. The pressure of needing to provide was lifted. My parents made me feel at home. When I returned to Arizona to visit my children, they made me feel at home. I started to see that they still loved me. Unconditionally. They appreciated my efforts to make them a home, and they told me so. I discovered that home is not a location. Once I had let go of the idea that it was the four walls that mattered, I discovered home in many places. In the car, driving cross-country with my youngest son; sleeping on the couch where my three oldest sons, all of whom are gainfully employed and doing just fine, share a home; at my married daughter’s apartment, holding my grandbabies; at church, at a concert, a movie, or enjoying a meal with people that I love. Home is not a structure made of brick and mortar. Home is something you carry with you, that you offer to others. Home is who you’re with, wherever you are, so long as it is built on a foundation of love.

Learned Lesson Number Eleven: Easter is Not About Chocolate

Atonement

I hurt, I fall, land on my knees,

He knows my pain, He feels, He sees.

Each slight, dismissal, injury

Was carried in Gethsemane.

He bled, atoned, for all of those

Who tried and scourged Him, brought Him low.

The bitter gall, the crown of thorns,

Through the streets, the cross was borne.

When, in despair, I plead with Him

To take from me the weight of sin,

The ache of loss, the grief undone,

He took it all, the battle’s won.

I smile through tears, healed by degrees.

Get on my feet, from off my knees

And do the work He gave to me,

That I may go, renewed, to be

With Him for all Eternity.

Learned Lesson Number Ten: Kindness is Never Foolishness

When I was in college the first time, some 30-plus years ago, I read a story in my Freshman English class at BYU that had a profound effect upon my life. It was written by Isaac Bashevis Singer, and is entitled “Gimpel the Fool”. Gimpel was an orphan who was simple and without guile. Because of his nature, he was a target his entire life. Everyone in the village where he lived engaged in dispensing ridicule and lies that were directed at Gimpel, for the sake of nothing more than their own entertainment. In spite of this, Gimpel chose to never get angry or take revenge upon anyone, even though he was large in stature and could have taken most of them out at any time. Even though he usually did know when they were lying to him. Instead he chose to perpetually extend the benefit of the doubt to all who would mess with him, because he did not want to take the chance that his disbelief or his vengefulness might hurt another. “What was I to do?” said he, “I believed them, and I hope at least that did them some good.” Gimpel chose to take the advice of his rabbi, which was, "It is written, better to be a fool all your days than for one hour to be evil. You are not a fool. They are the fools. For he who causes his neighbor to feel shame loses Paradise himself."

The story of Gimpel was not a happy one. He was horribly taken advantage of throughout his life, choosing always to see and embrace the good in those who treated him most miserably. When he came to the end of his days, he had no regrets, because he had never dished evil to a living soul. He was prepared and without fear, saying, “When the time comes I will go joyfully. Whatever may be there, it will be real, without complication, without ridicule, without deception. God be praised: there even Gimpel cannot be deceived.”

I have been gently accused, from time to time in my life, of being a “doormat”, of not standing up for myself when I was being taken advantage of. And without dwelling upon parts of my life that I am now mostly free of, sometimes they were right. I hate conflict, and would always rather take the brunt of any unkindness than ever dish it out myself. Not that I haven’t occasionally engaged in a few biting and cynical dialogues in my head when I felt attacked. But I can never bring myself to actually carry them out. The act of making anyone feel even slightly bad about anything, even (maybe especially) if they deserve it, is just not in my repertoire. I blame my mother for this. She does not have a mean cell in her body. When I was a small child, growing up in the 1960’s, she used to often quote a line from the movie “Bambi”, spoken by a repentant little bunny called Thumper, whose mother had taught it to him… “If ya can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.” She must have said this to us a lot, because it is so deeply ingrained in my memory. My mother lives by these words. I can honestly not remember a single time in my entire life that I have ever heard her speak an unkind word about anyone. And I have seen her deal kindly with those who deserved otherwise. This is what I aspire to.

I have six children, and I spend a whole lot of time beating myself up over the many ways I believe I have failed them over the years. None of us is perfect when it comes to parenting. But I believe that they have picked up this one concept along the way somehow, because they are mostly kind to each other. (Sometimes in their own unique, biting, and cynical way!) But they take care of each other, and I find that gratifying. I tell them repeatedly (and try to show them as well) that there is nothing in life that matters more than how they treat others. NOTHING. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Without exception. There is a reason that particular Rule is called the Golden one.

I saw a movie once, can’t remember what it was called, but it was about a guy who had treated people horribly his entire life, then had a near-death experience, from which he returned with the unwelcome ability to feel exactly what he had made other people feel. As time went by, he discovered that his own life was far less painful if he treated the people around him with kindness. Well, DUH! My own personal theory about Judgment Day, and Heaven versus Hell in the life after this one, is that a similar rule will apply. That the definition of both Heaven and Hell is the same; You will simply feel what you have caused others to feel. The Savior Himself has put no small emphasis on this particular concept. “Love one another, as I have loved you.” Pretty basic. As it says on the wall in my mother’s house, “Nice Matters”. Thumper and I have wise mothers. And Gimpel was no fool. When in doubt, always err on the side of kindness. What’s the worst that could happen?

Learned Lesson Number Nine: Learn to Enjoy the Long Drive

Last week I was trying to decide if a short trip to Arizona would be worth the long drive. I had some days off work, I missed my kids, and there were some friends’ events that I wanted to attend. But gas is high, and money is low, and it meant two all-nighters driving for a three-day stay. I found myself weighing the value against the cost. I chose to go, even though on the surface, the cost seemed to be nosing ahead of the value. I just had this feeling that getting there was important. So I got in the car and started driving.

I drive a lot. A LOT. This practice started early for me. I was in a really big hurry to get my drivers’ license, so the minute I turned 16, I was there. With bells on, whatever that means. Bells, but not shoes. That’s right, I was so excited that I couldn’t even keep my shoes on. Although the examiner was unaware of it, I took my test in my bare feet. I felt like I had more control with nothing between my skin and the gas pedal, so I slipped off my sandals and kicked them under the seat. I still often drive this way. (Don’t tell anyone. I am not sure it’s legal.)

I took my drivers’ test in downtown Phoenix in the spring of 1977, in a gigantic green beat-up Dodge van that seated something like 16 people. Well, maybe 12. It was big. Parallel parking was out of the question. Which is why I went to Phoenix, instead of Tempe, where I lived. No parallel parking required. Since I was the oldest of 9 children and therefore the first to acquire a license, my mother took full advantage of my constant desire to get behind the wheel, and she used me to shuttle kids from place to place wherever possible. I of course worked these jaunts into detours to pick up my friends and cruise around places like Main Street in Mesa, and the campus of Arizona State University, where many “foxy” (hey, it was the 70’s..) college boys could be found. It did not take long before my identity was somewhat entwined with that of the big ugly green van.

In my early 20’s, I found myself travelling in a white Ford Econoline cargo van, which did not have power steering or back windows, and belonged to my future husband, who was, at the time, a dark and brooding temptation to me. He was a drummer and I was the Chick Singer. We had a road band, and I was certain we were on the path to all of our musical dreams coming true. We covered a vast portion of the country over the course of a year or so, playing in hotel lounges and bars in places like Roswell, New Mexico, Lawton, Oklahoma, and yes, even Nashville, Tennessee. Play for a week or two, drive for a day or two. Talking, listening to music, dreaming of the future by the full moon. As long as we were driving, I was enveloped in the illusion that I was actually going somewhere. Often the destination was disappointing, but the next drive always gave me renewed hope.

After we were married, we moved often, with several of these moves being cross-country ones, as my husband followed contract jobs from place to place, and we followed him. The vehicles shifted, from cargo van, to mini-Blazer, to mini-van(s), to gas-guzzling Suburban. Moving was exciting when the kids were little, before it meant uprooting them from their friends and the things that they knew. The big moves were to places like Seattle, Detroit, Albuquerque, St. Louis, and Dallas. There were many smaller moves about the Phoenix area, and many trips between family in Utah and New Mexico. We moved at least once every single time that I was pregnant, (3 times with kid number 5) and some of those moves I made on my own. I really didn’t mind, because although the job was hard without him, it was also easier without him. Once I had all of my children contained in their seatbelts and carseats, I felt, at least briefly, that I had some control over my life. I could choose the music, escape into my mind, (where there was far less stress than in my real life) keep the wheels between the lines, and just GO. Forward motion. All was well. For 8 hours, or 12 hours, or 3 or 4 days. My life between the long drives was considerably more difficult.

In the 5 years since I got divorced, the long drives have been even more frequent, and approaching the destination has been increasingly fraught with varying levels of drama and stress, as I have shuttled my kids between Arizona and Utah to visit their father. He remarried and relocated very quickly, and the transition has not been a smooth one, particularly for my youngest son, who is the only one of my 6 kids who still lives with me. But a surprising thing has happened, along this bumpy road; I have really internalized the concept of embracing the journey. Even (perhaps especially) when I know there will be ugliness and difficulty at the end of the road.

My 12-year-old son, who used to be filled with anxiety and anger every time we had to make the drive from the desert to the mountains, now often turns off the music because he just wants to talk. We solve all the problems of the Universe, we hash out movie script ideas, we discuss religion and relationships, and forgiveness and possibility. He reads me song lyrics he has written. We eat Cheetos and drink YooHoo. He regales me with the plot of every episode of South Park, in spite of my protests. He wants to know what life was like for me in the 70’s. He asks me to sing “Blue Moon” for him, and then tells me, in all sincerity, as we drive in the moonlight with the sunroof open, that it is the most amazing thing he has ever heard. This from a kid who knows every word to every song that “Linkin Park” has ever recorded. (Which we also listen to, with the volume up.) We are planning a cross-country road trip for the summer of 2012, to see all the coolest landmarks. You know, just in case. Perhaps we will make our own documentary about that, and enter it in a film festival. My life on the road is a rich one, where all things are possible.

Since we have been staying in Utah for the year, the place we used to live has become the place we visit, (and vice versa) and the emotions and the homesickness that go with that have been challenging for us both. But the long drives that tie these two places together have often been where we gain our strength and perspective. When you feel like your life is not going where you want it to go, it can be refreshing to throw it in a car and drive it in a direction of your choosing for awhile. You at least have the illusion that you are going somewhere, and maybe you can figure some things out on the way about where you really are.

My long drive to Arizona and back last weekend was filled with questions and answers, respectively. The short stay in between was fulfilling and clarifying, in ways I did not expect. It was also fun. Never underestimate the value of fun. And although the cost was fairly close to what I had calculated, the value continues to increase even after my return. I don’t think this would be true if I had taken an hour and a half flight instead of making the long drive. There is no shortcut to embracing the journey. So put the key in the ignition, roll down the windows and crank up the music, put your bare foot on the gas pedal, and move forward. And don’t forget to buckle up.

Learned Lesson Number Eight: He Only Asks An Hour Of Us

I am a Christian. I am also a Mormon. I am not interested in debating the fact that those two things go together. I just need to preface these thoughts with the foundational truth that I am a believer in Christ, because that is what this particular message is about. I am a highly imperfect Christian. I try every day to better live my life in such a way as to honor Him and His sacrifice for me. I fail miserably a large portion of the time. I am ever learning more about what that sacrifice actually was, and today in church there was a talk given about the Atonement, so I paid very close attention. Because I was feeling a particular sense of unrest about some things, I desperately wanted to hear something that would give me a measure of peace. It was not really a particular comment that stood out to me, but the story was told of when Christ asked his disciples to join him in the Garden of Gethsemane while he prayed about the staggering challenge he was about to face. He asked if they could just “watch with Him” for an hour.

This did not mean they had to experience what He was experiencing, or take part in any way. Just watch. Just stay awake. Just be there, looking His direction. For one hour. And they couldn’t do it. None of us could have. It was here where He took on the sins of the world. It was here where He descended below all things for each of us. That is far too monumental for any of us to comprehend on any level that would matter. Even if we were there, awake, and watching, we would have seen pain and had empathy, but it would not have been possible for any of us to know the true nature of His burden. Our burdens. Which He willingly took upon himself, so that we could have a chance at all. So that we could be forgiven of not lasting even an hour with Him.

It struck me as I was listening to this account today, (and certainly not for the first time) that this experience is recorded in the Bible to illustrate to us that He only asks an hour of us. This whole seemingly endless string of challenges we all have to face in life is really only a relatively brief moment in the grand scheme of things. Just an hour. And when we can’t make it the whole hour, He extends His hand and takes us the rest of the way. But we have to be looking His direction in order to see His outstretched hand. And then we have to reach out and take it. How hard is that, really? My hour has been feeling long lately, and while I am still struggling with a lack of peace, I at least know that if I am doing my best to “watch with Him”, He will take me the rest of the way.

Learned Lesson Number Seven: I'm In Great Shape Under All This Fat

I know that this statement seems contradictory, so I suppose the first thing I should do is explain where this presumably oxymoronic (or perhaps simply “moronic”?) idea came from. Obviously, the question of weightiness has played a recurring role in my adult life, because a) I am a woman, and b) I have borne children. The “c” that goes with this “a” and this “b” is, of course, that I have been on diets. I have been on all of them. Just call me the “target demographic” of the weight-loss industry. After having given birth to a half-dozen not-so-tiny human beings over the course of fifteen years, I think I can safely say that I know the drill. I know what is expected “after the baby”; Low-fat versus low-carb, aerobics versus yoga, Pilates versus lap-band surgery, the beckoning call of the “skinny jeans” versus a frazzled new (and new again) mother’s precarious state of mind.

Somewhere between kid number five and kid number six, I had a brief encounter with common sense and decided to ditch all the diets and desperate ideas, deprive myself of nothing, and just start walking every day. The goal was not even to lose weight, just to clear my head a little and find a way to justify listening to as many audio books as possible. A surprising thing came out of this experience. I started to feel less precarious about my mental state. I really did not notice whether or not I was losing pounds, only that I could see more clearly, and a little further, down the previously foggy road ahead. And I felt stronger. Physically, spiritually, and emotionally stronger.

During this time, I was having a conversation with a friend who jokingly commented about being too cool to hang out with people who were not physically fit. My response to this was, “Whatever, I am in great shape under all this fat!” This comment caused my friend to laugh hysterically. Because it was such a ludicrous comment. And because it was funny. I remember making a mental note to myself at the time that this would make a good title. For exactly what, I did not know. I knew it could generate a laugh, and that there must be some truth to it on some level, or I would not have thought to say it. So. Into my hoarder’s paradise of a brain the idea went, along with so many other as-yet-unrealized (and possibly unrecoverable) grand ideas I have tripped over along the way. But this one kept rising to the top, briefly jogging my memory, then returning to the depths once more.

Not long after this, I became pregnant with my sixth and final contribution to the earth’s population, and in the process managed to bury myself once more, both literally and figuratively. At the same time, my always shifting and shaky marriage was starting to crumble under the strain, finally giving out altogether when my youngest child was seven years old. In the five years since divorce, as I have attempted to achieve some level of stability for my kids and myself, I have often felt like I was trapped inside a giant chunk of immovable stone, unable to turn my head in any direction, to hope, or even to breathe. I kept having this recurring image from my college art history class, of myself as one of those unfinished sculptures by Michelangelo, knowing there was something more under the rock that was beautiful and useful, perhaps even valuable, if I could just find a way to get it out.

With my mind continually churning through ideas about how to accomplish this, that old idea about “being in great shape under the fat” started to surface more and more often. As I began gaining enough strength, by small degrees, to finally start moving forward, the truth of that supposedly contradictory statement began to become clear to me.

In the course of my many attempts to fight off the excess fat over the years, I learned a few things about weight-lifting that stuck with me; In order to build up muscle, you first have to break it down, through exertion, to the point of exhaustion. Between these sessions of breaking down the muscle tissue, you have to give it time to rest and rebuild, and when it does, it becomes stronger and able to lift and carry more weight. This was one of those concepts I knew because I had heard it repeated so many times, yet I felt like a failure because I was not so great at exercising it by getting to the gym to actually lift weights. I am not sure exactly when the realization sunk in that I was gaining strength simply by virtue of lifting and carrying the weight that was already on me. Literally, figuratively, and repeatedly. I actually was in great shape under all that fat.

When that idea finally planted itself firmly in my mind and heart, I knew what I needed to write about. I was able to pluck that one aging idea out of the swirling mass of accumulated knowledge in my brain, polish it up, and fix it firmly in the foreground. Once I did this, it became easier to recognize some of those other things rolling around in my head that I know to be true. This is where the idea for this blog came from, and I hope to shape these thoughts into book form in the not-too-distant future. The idea is that this process will make space in my brain for all of the new knowledge I plan to accumulate in the second half of my century on this planet. That’s right. I said “my century”. I fully intend to write a sequel to this book in another fifty years.

As I have given more thought to that feeling of being trapped in solid and unforgiving rock, like one of Michelangelo’s unfinished masterpieces, it has occurred to me that many of those pieces are just as famous and considered to be just as valuable as the ones that he did finish. They are in museums, too. In fact, when I went back and studied some of these statues again, they struck me as almost being more breathtaking than the polished and refined versions. They certainly stirred up more emotion in me. The passion of the struggle and the perfection of the parts that have managed to emerge, in stark contrast to the rock, represent the reality of the struggle that we all face each day. And they are in great shape under all that rock.

Perhaps it was a conscious decision on the part of Michelangelo to leave some of them unfinished. Perhaps it was a conscious decision on the part of the original Master to leave some of us unfinished. Perhaps they both saw the full value of the individual work in its unfinished form, and knew that it would have just as much intrinsic value as the works that were fully polished and refined.

I, for one, certainly don’t feel that I am fully polished and refined yet. Not by any stretch of my now slightly less-cluttered imagination. But because I know that the Master sees my full value, regardless of how much or how little of me has managed to emerge thus far, I can say with confidence that I am in great shape under all this weight I have yet to shed. And I am grateful for the opportunity to carry it, as far as I need to carry it.

Learned Lesson Number Six – Faith is the Opposite of Fear

I believe in faith. Is that redundant? Perhaps a better way to state that would be that I practice faith. Practice is a great word because it suggests repetition. And repetition is the only way we really learn anything. I often find myself allowing fear to rule my thoughts, and that is not a good thing. I have really learned that in order to hold onto faith, you have to kick fear the heck out. Forcibly remove it. Divorce it from your life. Divorce is a good word to use in this context because (having experienced it) it suggests to me “dividing with force.”

When my former husband and I were in the process of what was intended to be an “amicable” divorce, we were going to a mediator who never used the word “divorce”, instead using the word “dissolution” to describe what we were doing to our family. It sounded sweet and painless, like sugar dissolving in water. As we got further down the road, it became clear to me that “dissolution” was not an accurate description of the experience. It was definitely a “dividing with force”. While divorce is not a pleasant thing when it happens to a couple and/or family, it is a most useful word when it comes to what should be done with the negative parts of life.

One of my favorite writers is C.S. Lewis, who wrote an excellent book called “The Great Divorce”. It has been years since I read it, but one point stood out, and that was that no degree of evil could exist in Heaven. Not a molecule. There had to be a total separation between good and evil. Because it is an irrevocable law that the two cannot occupy the same space. The same applies to light and darkness, hope and despair, and faith and fear. Light and darkness is a visible example. No one can argue with that one, because it can be seen. If a room is dark and you turn on a light, the darkness is gone from the space that is now occupied by the light. Period. No debate.

The others are a bit more slippery. Fear is sometimes seen as a positive motivator, or a deterrent to bad behavior. I myself have for years foolishly believed that if I could imagine the worst in any given situation, the fact that I had thought of it would prevent it from happening. As silly as that is, I would wager that some of you have also shared this belief on some level at some time, am I right? I am.

Worry never made the scary thing easier when the scary thing actually happened. We talk about “not getting our hopes up” and about how “if we have no expectations, we cannot be disappointed.” It takes a lot of practice to break out of these thought patterns. Rejecting hope and expecting nothing are products of fear. In order to embrace faith, we must divorce fear. We have to get our hopes up and expect everything. It’s risky. RISKY. Hopes can be dashed and expectations shattered, whether by other people, or by unforeseen circumstances, it happens. It has happened to me, and it certainly will again.

Right now I can see some possibilities in my future that look so good that I am afraid to hope for them. It feels much safer in that old and confining box that is labeled “I don’t deserve something that great.” But I want out of that box. So I have decided to get my hopes way, way up. Into the freakin’stratosphere! I have decided to expect every amazing thing I can imagine for myself and my children. I have decided to finally trust that the God I have faith in is a loving Father who wants to give me those things. My faith in this is strong. And when I inevitably start to doubt and fear, I will practice that faith. Again and again. Until practice makes perfect, and faith replaces fear. Forever.