Dresser Disaster

Back in February, before Move To New Town was public knowledge, I started this blog post:

"First the pain, then the rising." Rising?! It feels like all I'm qualified to do right now is go to bed. For a long time. I'm in a lot of pain. I'm sad. I'm confused. I'm scared. I'm angry. I cry for all the reasons. I forget where I'm going. But instead of being excused from adulting, I'm being thrust into it.

Close your business.

Buy a home.

Move your family.

So &$%! hard. Like, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to do this. Previous versions of me wanted to do it well. Now I just want to survive. There will be collateral damage. But my new expectation is "nothing I can't fix later." Instead of no mistakes, I'm shooting for repairable mistakes. So, basically, keep breathing. Keep the children breathing.


Here in August, I'm struck by the irony of my words.  A slice of Thursday mornings have turned into (for now) trees, coffee, and writing.   I sit, stare, and try to notice all the different trees.  Notice if the wind is blowing.  Notice if things are growing or dying.  I don't spend too long in that space before I know the metaphor isn't lost on my life right now.  So I write.  I had planned on writing about this phenomenon:



And, after finding my February post, it feels even more important to write about that pieces-on-the-floor bit.

Before February, it felt like I had this lovely dresser that held all sorts of important things to me.  And then someone CAME INTO MY HOUSE WITHOUT ASKING AND TORE APART THE DRESSER.  In this case, someone was a committee that made decisions about husband's job.  But I've been watching, friends.  And sometimes someone is a committee.  But sometimes it's cancer.  Sometimes it's divorce.  Sometimes it's depression or anxiety or ___________ .  And EVERY time it's an overwhelming force that doesn't ask permission, but takes names.  And we're left helpless, on the sidelines watching the carnage.

Glennon (I just use her first name as if we are besties) was the one that said "first the pain, then the rising."  She also believes that PAIN is life's greatest TEACHER.  Gah.  I don't even know why we're besties.  But after 6 months, I'm less sad and angry about the dresser pieces.  Since school has started, I've spent a lot of time on the floor (literally and figuratively) with the pieces, feeling curious.  Feeling pretty sure it's not a dresser anymore.  But recognizing some of the pieces.  The scripture on my heart this week has been Jeremiah 29:11.  For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.  Well, that's good, Lord.  Sounds like you know what this mess of particleboard and laminate is supposed to turn into? Lovely.  But, why should I trust you?  Because, in case you didn't realize, GOD, this dresser was really, really important to me.  And it is BROKEN.  And that doesn't feel very HOPEFUL or FUTURE-Y.

Then my bestie Glennon stops by with this nugget: Heartbreak is not a mistake. It’s not a problem. Heartbreak is a holy gift — an invitation from God. Heartache is a signal to you that you’ve stumbled upon something worthy of your life. Do not run, do not turn away: follow your heartbreak. The broken road is the road less traveled. Take it, walk it, it will make all the difference. Everything beautiful starts with a broken heart.

Then I found the February post where I wrote But my new expectation is "nothing I can't fix later."  Instead of no mistakes, I'm shooting for repairable mistakes. 

Sigh.  I have no problem arguing with God.  Or my besties.  But when previous versions of me say the same things as God and Besties, I start to surrender to this idea that the pieces really could become something.

So this week, I've been digging out the dress pants, putting on heels, and going to meetings.  In these meetings, I'm listening. Then I come home and putter with my furniture pieces.  I'm still not sure where the pieces fit.  But I do trust that I was built for a time such as this and somehow God will transform these pieces into prosperity and hope.

If you're in a season of dresser carnage, or holding pieces, or piecing together, please know that you are loved.  YOU are not the dresser.  YOU are a sacred energy.  

First Day of School

It's the first day of school here today.  It's a big first day, first day in New Town. Kiddo 1.0 LOVES school, so while she says she nervous, she's mostly excited for a couple of reasons:
(1) She is 98.9% extrovert and moving has significantly impacted her social life.
(2) She gets her own desk. Second grade is the real deal.
(3) She thrives on routine.  Things that fit in notebooks and equations that balance are so.her.jam.

This list is starting to sound very familiar.  We ARE talking about her, not me.   Well.  Maybe both.  Here's where we do differ.

On the first day, she is excited, eager to line up, waiting for the next thing.  It seems this would be a typical response for me too.  If we've spent any time together, you know there's aspects of parenting that I find really tedious.  Some that top the list:

Preparing food THREE TIMES A DAY.  Note, I said "food."  Martha Stewart would not constitute some of this summer's offerings as a "meal."

Arguing about the THICKNESS OF SOCKS.  Apparently, the acceptable parameters change from week to week.

Negotiating the merits of PERSONAL HYGIENE.  It's no problem to spend lots and lots of money on a particular shirt so we feel cool, but smelling bad isn't a deal breaker.

But I'm not relieved or excited.  Every single first day, I experience this huge wave of emotion.  The wear-my-sunglasses-so-I-can-covertly-cry emotion.  I used to think it was "sad" because our culture says "if it's a difficult feeling, it's probably sad.  No need to investigate further, go ahead and have a latte and check your Facebook."  But I'm getting more tuned in, and as that wave hit, I took a deep breath and noticed.

It was "vulnerable."

I feel vulnerable when I think of the servant leadership of the teachers and paras.
I feel vulnerable when I think about the overwhelming blessing of dropping my child off at a basically-free, safe-enough, equal-opportunity school.
I feel vulnerable when I think about the diverse stories each of these children carry in their backpacks, alongside notebooks and pencil boxes.

I'm going to honor that vulnerability today by making some tea & looking out my tree window while I pray for teachers and paras.
I'm going to honor that vulnerability today by getting the housework done before Kiddo 1.0 gets home so I can be present in a patient way to things like sandwiches, socks, and showers.
I'm going to honor that vulnerability today by getting therapy work done so that Kiddo 1.0 and her classmates can grow up in a culture equipped to support big feelings and healthy coping skills.

Big love, community.  I honor and appreciate the vulnerability in you!