No Room in the Inn

The season of advent is always so enlightening to me.  Christmas is a time to celebrate the birth of Jesus, but there are these weeks before that are dark and riddled with pain and inconveniences.  Mary traveled many miles on a donkey only to be told there was no room in the inn.  Can you imagine settling in for the night on your pillow of hay to give birth to a KING?  I’ve not been through child birth, but I know this had to suck.  No drugs, no cozy bed, no nurses.  How frightened she and Joseph must have been  - to feel so alone and helpless with this great responsibility of bringing a child in to the world and now raising whom they’ve been told will be the world’s Savior.  No pressure, guys.  Eventually some shepherds and wisemen came along bearing comfort and gifts.  This is the part most of us want and choose to think about – who wants to think about all that darkness?

A dark room is still used for most photo development.  The real picture, color, and story really comes through after an appropriate season of darkness.  It is not meant for harm.  It is for development.  Advent is like the period of darkness where we watch and wait for the full beautiful picture to unfold. And waiting in the dark is brutal for most of us.  Here’s our story. Go ahead and grab your coffee or Moscow mule and settle in…

We sold our house and had to be out on 11/23. We closed on our new house on 12/4, however, because of some repairs and painting, we will not move in until Wed 12/9.  So we will have been “homeless” just over 2 weeks.  And even though there was vacancy, it feels like there is no room in the Brentwood Residence Inn.  We are crammed in here with each other’s dysfunction just pouring out on each other.  We spent the first week visiting family out of town, so we checked in here already with some traveling scars – you know – the residual of those uncomfortable family interactions and avoidance, 11 + hours in a car each way, a barfing kid in the car after being in one spot in traffic for over an hour, almost hitting a 12 point buck just a few miles from home, and then wearing my husband’s underwear the next day because all my clothes got wet from the supposed waterproof luggage rack.  No, we didn’t ride a donkey here, and we’re not sleeping on hay, but I kind of get it.  It has been dark and uncomfortable – not what we planned.  And if feels like there is no room in this inn for hope, comfort, and joy of the season. I’m driving by houses with lights and Christmas trees and feeling a little displaced.  I’m still in the dark – waiting for the lights. So I bought this tiny poinsettia for our room. I’m bringing some Christmas joy up in here, dang it!

And my intent is not to complain.  We just bought a cute and cozy home in Williamson County, a beloved area and school district in our state.  So, “oh woe is me – I have to wait for painters to finish my happy home in cushy Franklin.” Right? I absolutely cringe when I think of people living on streets, hospitals, and orphanages.  So then I think “stop complaining, suck it up, you’re fine.”  And this also gets me in trouble.  This isn’t about a comparison. I can have compassion for them AND me.  Our dark is obviously different.  And I can still honor the darkness we each go through.  We are all in need of the Light.  I can only hold and know my own darkness and tell its story.  And it’s not about “I can’t get in my new house yet.”  It is the pain of transition.  It is the discomfort of waiting.  It is feeling displaced and alone.  It is my season of advent. But then someone will text and say, “hey I’m bringing your family some papa murphy’s pizza at the hotel.” Or a teacher from the boys’ school emails to say, “bring your boys over to play – we’ve been in your situation before and know you need space.” It’s another family taking our children in for a night so we can go on a long overdue date.   The shepherds and wisemen show up with comfort and gifts.  I take a lot of deep breaths to remind myself we won’t be in transition forever.  This is just a season. I am thankful for a Savior who came to this world as a human, fully feeling and experiencing life like the rest of us. His birth teaches me that all hope and growth starts in the dark.

THERE IS ALWAYS  HOPE. LIGHT COMES EVENTUALLY.  WAIT EXPECTANTLY,  DEAR FRIENDS. 

Essentials

Pack only what is essential. These were the instructions I gave my kids last week as we packed up our home and filled our suitcases. We sold our house and had to be out on 11/23/15.  We close on our new house on 12/4/15.  So we have about two weeks between where we are wandering – living out of our suitcases, visiting family for Thanksgiving in Missouri and Oklahoma, and eating free hot breakfasts at the Brentwood Residence Inn. We are on Day 1 of this journey.  I’m sure I’ll have lots to report. But here’s what I’m really noticing so far – pack only what is essential.  We had to pack in our luggage what we needed for those two weeks, and it really made me so aware of what we really cannot live without.

We filled bags full of clothes, toys, and other things to take to goodwill. We sold furniture and home goods.  We recycled and threw things away.  Then what we wanted but was not essential right now went into storage.  What was essential stayed with us for these 2 weeks. And our essentials might sound strange to you, but yours might sound strange to us.  This is all okay.  We’re not supposed to be the same. I have a favorite blanket that had to come.  Carl cannot live without the random music playlists he dances to on his iPad.  Woody packed a soccer ball.  Wilnes had a drawer full of items that he wasn’t sure he would need these 2 weeks but said “but what if I do need them?” Which told me it was essential to him to feel like he could access his comforts.  Todd packed his work backpack.  I packed other things like sea salt, essential oils, and a heating pad. And these are just a few of our essentials, but they represent our personalities and lives so plainly. 

I drove up to the storage unit to drop some things off and saw all 3 of my boys kicking a soccer ball around outside the rows of storage units. They were laughing and having so much fun.  There they were in the middle of all these rows of people’s “stuff,” and I couldn’t help but cry with happiness and peace. It was such a reminder to me to notice the beauty of simplicity and relationship in the midst of the chaos of moving and storing. Everything that was essential was playing right in front of me or packed up in the jeep to go with us. 

And of course I would be so sad to lose my favorite chair in storage.  I’m not trying to be all “hey, just go sell all your stuff and live off the love of your family.”  I am looking forward to our new house and getting all my items back out to make “home.”  But on this leg of the journey, I continue to notice and be really thankful for the essentials I am carrying with me.  And I enter this holiday season being so mindful that the random toy on the Target shelf would just go to goodwill or storage eventually.  I want to focus on what is essential as I think about myself and loved ones during this time of gratitude and gift-giving…what will enrich our lives, personalities, and truest selves?

If you had to pack up most of your belongings and keep just a few things with you…

~What would you sell or give away? Why?

~What would you throw away? Why?

~What would you put in storage for later? Why?

~What is essential to you that you need to keep with you? Why?

~What do you notice being most thankful for?

~How does thinking about these questions impact your view of the holidays and gift-giving?

  

I See You

Today I have been married to Todd for nine years.  I would sit here and write a bunch of really beautiful mushy things about this, but what I really need to tell you is how hard marriage is and why every day it is still worth it.

Not every day feels like "I do."  If you are married, then you probably know this.  I remember being such a princess-like 26 yr old in my gorgeous wedding gown, perfectly manicured fingers and toes, and long extensions in my hair thinking, "Oh man, this is it, I'm going to be a wife. Happily ever after!" Then fast forward to a few months later throwing pizza at each other late one night in the kitchen because we were probably having "that same fight" we always have.  Not every day felt magical. And guess what, it's not supposed to.  And how often does anyone tell you that?  Marriage isn't about magical love and feeling blissful and happy all the time.  And it's certainly not about agreeing with each other all the time.  But when you aren't blissful or in agreement, you still know someone has your back.  Someone gets you. Someone is willing to come back around after that pizza slice has been thrown and say, "Whoops, here's what I really meant to say or do."  We are all just humans, so we're going to mess up in relationships and say or do about a million things we wish we hadn't. It's about the repair. It's about being willing to think about what you really feel underneath it all and say it out loud to the other person.  Maybe instead of throwing pizza, I wanted to say, "I'm so hurt and embarrassed."  But because my pride wouldn't let me be vulnerable, my anger felt stronger and more empowering.  So I took that route.  And I've learned it doesn't work.  Here's what we are learning works:

"I see you."  This applies to myself and my husband. When I'm overcome with emotion, I stop and say to myself, "OK, I see you, Laura - what's going on?" And I am practicing every day just seeing Todd too.  What's really behind his tone or under his words?  Is this really about me or a bad day he's having?  I ask questions. I get curious.  This all helps me so much more than falling into my shame spiral when I assume something he is saying or doing is about something I've done wrong.  I get to know HIM by what he's saying about HIS OWN experience.  And I can trust if there's something he needs to tell me about me or something I've done to hurt or upset him, then he'll say so.  I love this excerpt from Rising Strong by Brene Brown that explains more about this so beautifully - click here.

I heard a wonderful quote, and I wish I could tell you exactly who said it, but I heard it at a recent therapist training in Internal Famliy Systems - "Listening does not mean agreeing."  Yes!  This phrase has set me free in so many ways.  I listen to get to know someone - to understand them more fully.  I don't have to become them or join with their rationale in order to be in relationship with them. I just have to listen with curiosity and compassion. And I still get to be me with my own thoughts and feelings.

I am not the same girl Todd married.  We have had that discussion many times too.  On October 7, 2006, I was a devout Baptist, ate lots of gluten, didn't recycle a thing, was a chronic people pleaser, and was pretty sure people got married because they were supposed to - and then make babies.  Nine years later we'll just say this has all changed.  And that's the other thing I wish someone would have told me - that it's okay to change. That it's okay to really seek out yourself - what you like, believe, wish, love, dream of, hope for.  And that what you may find on your self-expedition might be different than what it was in your twenties.  And that doesn't mean my marriage is over because "I'm not the same girl anymore." It means Todd is married to a grown ass woman who knows herself now.  And I see how he's changed too. It's uncomfortable sometimes, but it grows and matures us.  Every day we lean into the beauty of our individuality and how no matter what changes in us as people, we are choosing to keep seeing each other and reaching for connection.  We aren't getting this perfect, and we're not supposed to.  Neither are you.  We can all just be willing.  That goes a long way in love.

The Fall

As much as I love the Fall, this blog is not about my favorite season.  I started today with a lot of decisions to make –confusing and hard decisions.  So I took a walk.  I needed to clear my head, talk to Jesus, spend some time with myself – like really hear myself and all the different “parts” of me that needed attention. My clients and colleagues who know about IFS know all about the “parts” language, and my story will hopefully help you come to notice a bit of your own “parts in charge” that keep you stuck.

My achiever part was really the one in charge on that walk.  She wouldn’t let me leave the house without my phone.  Her voice goes like this, “Listen, I know you want to just walk, clear your head, and all that other stuff that sounds like it could be good for you, but we’ve really got a lot of stuff to do.  Just take your phone with you so you can make a few calls and send a few texts while you’re taking in all that fresh air and sunshine.  It won’t hurt – just multitask!” I listened to her.  I listen to her a lot. 

About 10 steps out of my driveway, I whipped my phone out to start checking off that list of calls and texts.  Ah, here we go – sunshine AND productivity!  But with my eyes on my phone, I didn’t see a pothole.  But my foot found it.  It rolled.  My right knee took a good hit, and my phone went flying.  What do you do after something like this happens?  Yes, I looked around to see who had seen me.  Surely someone is looking out their kitchen window at me getting such entertainment by my ridiculousness. My pride was throbbing and burning more than my foot or knee. I sat there in my shame for about 10 minutes, and then realized I was bleeding and possibly may not be able to walk.  But my achiever part said, “come on, girl, just shake it off.  You’re not hurt.  I bet you can still take this walk.” I listened to her again.  And I hobbled around for most of the rest of the day – pretty sure it was just sore or bruised or whatever.

And now I’m sitting here elevated with ice and can’t walk.  After carrying me to the kitchen to eat dinner, Todd said, “honey, your walks are for YOU.”  He’s right.  I’m so ashamed.  I knew better.  (Enter my “critic part” who likes to beat me up for all my bad decisions and yell at my achiever for trying to do too much).  I just cried.  I know that.  But my achiever part doesn’t know that.  This is what she believes…

If I achieve, people will notice. They will appreciate me.  They will find me worthy – a worthy wife, parent, friend, person, etc.  If I get things done I am proving how strong I am.  If I push through the pain and exhaustion, then I am a badass.  And if I’m worthy, I will be loved.  She learned today that potholes don’t care about that.  They aren’t bias to who steps in them.  And actually the badasses rocking tasks on their phones are definitely more prone to their entrapment.  She was so caught up in getting things done, she was not present – literally couldn’t see in front of her. And when things get so cloudy like that, something has to stop her.  It literally means stopping her in her tracks.

So, here’s what I want my achiever part (and all your achiever parts to know)…

 Thank you, my hard working achiever part, for all you are trying to do for me. You really do a great job! I’m so thankful for you. Do you know how lovely you are even when you take a break? Do you know I might actually get more done if I pause, rest, take a time out from the rest of the busy world to take care of myself?  Do you know you are still loved if you mess up? You are still loved if you rest.  You are still loved if you focus on one task at a time.  You are still loved if you miss a meeting or a chore or a deadline.  You are still worthy. You are still enough. So just breathe, Miss Achiever. Sit here with your elevated ankle on ice and just breathe.  And pick up that new Brene Brown “Rising Strong” book and get some encouragement.  Cry a little. Text your girlfriends and be vulnerable. Write this blog and admit you quite literally fell down on your job today.  Tomorrow is a new day.  You can stop fighting so hard to be better. You are loved right here and now in your absolute mess.  You are loved even after you fall. 

Real Mom

I sat down to write and really just didn’t know where to start.  So I began just by taking a breath.  A big long deep breath. And I reminded myself where I am now and what I had just been through – where WE are and what we have been through.  It’s a miracle really.  This time last year we were driving our boys to their first days of American school.  I was way more scared than they were (I think).   After one year, I’m pretty sure I still don’t know what I’m doing and more scared than they are, but I find comfort in hearing almost every other parent say that back to me. 

Recently I posted this picture of our boys after taking them to the Parthenon replica here in Nashville and said “…we took an unexpected exit to see the Parthenon and get snow cones. And that’s exactly what this journey feels like – surprise turns and treats.  Most days this is really hard.  Every day it’s really worth it.”

And their heartbreaking questions and comments are beginning…

“Mom, did you and Dad buy us?”

“Mom, tell me the story about when my mom Haitian said you could have me.”

Their curious hearts and minds can’t wrap around this, and I get it. Their stories rest so heavy on my heart.  I do not know what their little diaper bottoms looked like.  I do not know their first word spoken.  I do not have a baby book with recorded memories for them.  I grieve those moments I did not share.  And what I now understand is that those were not mine to share. These moments – days at the Parthenon eating snow cones – are mine to share. And I grieve in a whole other way that their Haitian mamas don’t have those.  

A lot of adopted parents get pretty defensive about the “real mom and dad” language.  For example, if someone asks who is the “real” mom and dad, it’s hurtful. But I don’t want to shame or judge anyone about that – most people mean no harm.  What I do want to acknowledge and honor is that my boys have 2 moms and 2 dads.  Real ones.  We all play a really important part of their lives.  When I answered my boy's second question above, I said, “your mom Haitian told me she wanted you to have an opportunity to grow and learn. She loved you so much that she and I became a mom team.  She gave you life, and I help you grow and live your life. She is always in your heart loving and believing in you, and so am I.  I will never take her place.  She is special in her way, and I am special in mine.” And then we hung their Haitian mothers’ pictures in our kitchen.  And then I went to my bedroom and cried for hours.  I wonder if their Haitian mamas would be proud of me.  This is so freaking hard.

I found two crumbled packets of crackers in our pantry a few days ago and just wept.  It is what the twins’ Haitian mom gave them on the day they last saw her. She said she wanted to make sure they had a snack for the plane to America.  They would not eat them. They wanted to save them. Can you imagine what that must have been like for her to offer what she could give them one last time – and for them to save it so sweetly?  I have them tucked away in a special place.  We are all just carrying the grief and tucking it away.

I also realize that some people don’t feel like they can relate to our story or don’t understand adoption and why we chose this path.  But I’m a big believer we can all connect in our stories – no matter how different.  For example, a new family moved in our neighborhood - two women and their daughters - and one of the little girls excitedly told me “Guess what? I have TWO mommies!”  I said, “I think that’s really special. My boys have 2 mommies too!”

I am so thankful for all real mamas and daddies.  We are in this together.