Because I have had so much trouble getting this blogger platform to do what I want it to do, and so many of you have been unable to post your comments, I decided to move. My new blog is now cedartreemarathon.wordpress.com
I hope you can take yourself off the followers list at this website and follow me there.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Gone But Not Forgotten
Got a call from my sister today. I'll call her Betsy. Why Betsy? Well, it's a rather old-fashioned name in my mind. And my sister is stuck in some old fashioned world that is far away from mine. She is schizophrenic. The gene is strong in our family. My mom, my sister, my cousin, probably an uncle.
Betsy was at a pay phone. She told me she was waiting for a bus to the university a few towns over. She said she was going to look up cartoons and copy them so she could give them to people and make them feel better. She then told me how to find cartoons in the library and insisted that I copy and give out cartoons too. I laughed a little, hemmed and hawed.
"Come on! Why don't you do it? You should do it. It will make people feel good. Promise me you will do it."
"Well, I kind of doubt I will."
"I know! Why not? Tell me why not?!"
"Well . . . it's really not my thing."
"Ok. I can accept that."
Talking with someone who is mentally ill elicits the same reaction in my body every time it happens. I tense my neck. I hold my breath. I feel like I am walking on a tightrope, balancing, balancing, and hoping the next gust of wind doesn't knock me over. I think walking on a tightrope is probably even easier in some ways, because if you know what you are doing, you can make it from one end to the other using all the skills you have practiced repeatedly.
Repeated interaction with someone who is mentally ill does not build a skillset that can be applied each time. In other words, mental illness is all about unpredictability. When you never know what is going to happen, when you know there is a good chance of something going wrong, but you can't predict the trigger, timing, or the outcome, all you can do is try to tiptoe through the conversation, alert, hyper-vigilent, hoping to avoid whatever hidden landmines are waiting to explode.
That was pretty much my childhood from 9 on, and it has continued as an adult, with less frequency of course, because I have my own life now.
My conversation with Betsy was not long. Once we got past the cartoons, there was the weather, and "how's church?" questions. She sounded strong which surprised me, because the last report I heard coming from her landlord and the people in her parish was rather alarming. It's extremely, unseasonably hot back where she lives, and Betsy has been walking out in the sun wearing sweaters. I asked her if she uses her air conditioner. No, she said. She hasn't really needed it. She doesn't like it.
People have reported her as being red faced and hunched over as she walks through town. She has been yelling at people. She is thin, and I know she does not eat well. "She needs to see a doctor", her very kind and loving landlord tells my other sister, Ellie. (I have given her this alias because she is a female version of a cross between TS Elioit and CS Lewis. If you combine their names you get Eloise--sort of. Ellie is short and easy.)
Well, of course. Yes, yes, yes. a doctor. How many times have I asked, explained, suggested, demanded that she see a doctor? I don't know. I know that the helplessness of family in these situations is unfathomable to those who haven't lived it. I have tried. I have had her hospitalized against her will. I have tried reasoning, helping, not helping, playing hardball, tiptoeing, being blunt, being mad, being sad, being loving and kind. I have been through every emotion, every strategy. I have called agencies, therapists, crisis workers, lawyers.
I cannot save my sister.
One person who knows the laws about guardianship told me that we will have no power to help, or force medication, or do anything on behalf of Betsy unless she is completely incapacitated, or in other words, no power to do anything unless something terrible happens.
The sister I knew is long gone. She was my best friend. She was my advocate, my personal cheerleader, the audience for my tales of teenage angst, the friend that stayed up nights late with me to giggle over nothing. She is gone.
The person occupying her body is not someone I know. Betsy does not wander about babbling and hallucinating in the way schizophrenic people are typically portrayed in film and tv, although I have seen her reacting to things that aren't there. She does however, engage people in a childlike way, making them uncomfortable.
Betsy can go on for a long time about herself, her view of life. Could she convince a policeman sent to determine if she is a danger to herself or others that she is perfectly fine? Yes, she could. Is she fine? No. Not in the least. Because, after what may appear to be a lucid conversation, Betsy might forget that the conversation even happened, or she might get on a bus and travel a 1000 miles with no money and no plan. She might knock on your door at 2 am, or send you strange postcards with writing that barely makes sense.
Sometimes when I go about my day, I stop and remember that she is living her life in a small apartment without much furniture, and few belongings, because she has taken a vow of poverty. She is lonely, feels useless and isolated, and, like a child, is unaware of the way the world works. If I allow myself to consider her world for very long, I can't feel mine. Anxiety, numbness, the shallow breathing that happens when I am in her presence, they take over when I let Betsy into my day.
But I can't let the grief consume me. I cannot let my empathy swallow my capacity to feel joy. If I do, I will drown. And so as my mind considers her day, and what it's like, I step away and focus on the flower in the neighbor's yard, or the dog barking for a walk. I say a little prayer. I allow myself to forget, until I remember. And perhaps on Sunday I will cut out a cartoon or two from the newspaper and send them to my sister.
Betsy was at a pay phone. She told me she was waiting for a bus to the university a few towns over. She said she was going to look up cartoons and copy them so she could give them to people and make them feel better. She then told me how to find cartoons in the library and insisted that I copy and give out cartoons too. I laughed a little, hemmed and hawed.
"Come on! Why don't you do it? You should do it. It will make people feel good. Promise me you will do it."
"Well, I kind of doubt I will."
"I know! Why not? Tell me why not?!"
"Well . . . it's really not my thing."
"Ok. I can accept that."
Talking with someone who is mentally ill elicits the same reaction in my body every time it happens. I tense my neck. I hold my breath. I feel like I am walking on a tightrope, balancing, balancing, and hoping the next gust of wind doesn't knock me over. I think walking on a tightrope is probably even easier in some ways, because if you know what you are doing, you can make it from one end to the other using all the skills you have practiced repeatedly.
Repeated interaction with someone who is mentally ill does not build a skillset that can be applied each time. In other words, mental illness is all about unpredictability. When you never know what is going to happen, when you know there is a good chance of something going wrong, but you can't predict the trigger, timing, or the outcome, all you can do is try to tiptoe through the conversation, alert, hyper-vigilent, hoping to avoid whatever hidden landmines are waiting to explode.
That was pretty much my childhood from 9 on, and it has continued as an adult, with less frequency of course, because I have my own life now.
My conversation with Betsy was not long. Once we got past the cartoons, there was the weather, and "how's church?" questions. She sounded strong which surprised me, because the last report I heard coming from her landlord and the people in her parish was rather alarming. It's extremely, unseasonably hot back where she lives, and Betsy has been walking out in the sun wearing sweaters. I asked her if she uses her air conditioner. No, she said. She hasn't really needed it. She doesn't like it.
People have reported her as being red faced and hunched over as she walks through town. She has been yelling at people. She is thin, and I know she does not eat well. "She needs to see a doctor", her very kind and loving landlord tells my other sister, Ellie. (I have given her this alias because she is a female version of a cross between TS Elioit and CS Lewis. If you combine their names you get Eloise--sort of. Ellie is short and easy.)
Well, of course. Yes, yes, yes. a doctor. How many times have I asked, explained, suggested, demanded that she see a doctor? I don't know. I know that the helplessness of family in these situations is unfathomable to those who haven't lived it. I have tried. I have had her hospitalized against her will. I have tried reasoning, helping, not helping, playing hardball, tiptoeing, being blunt, being mad, being sad, being loving and kind. I have been through every emotion, every strategy. I have called agencies, therapists, crisis workers, lawyers.
I cannot save my sister.
One person who knows the laws about guardianship told me that we will have no power to help, or force medication, or do anything on behalf of Betsy unless she is completely incapacitated, or in other words, no power to do anything unless something terrible happens.
The sister I knew is long gone. She was my best friend. She was my advocate, my personal cheerleader, the audience for my tales of teenage angst, the friend that stayed up nights late with me to giggle over nothing. She is gone.
The person occupying her body is not someone I know. Betsy does not wander about babbling and hallucinating in the way schizophrenic people are typically portrayed in film and tv, although I have seen her reacting to things that aren't there. She does however, engage people in a childlike way, making them uncomfortable.
Betsy can go on for a long time about herself, her view of life. Could she convince a policeman sent to determine if she is a danger to herself or others that she is perfectly fine? Yes, she could. Is she fine? No. Not in the least. Because, after what may appear to be a lucid conversation, Betsy might forget that the conversation even happened, or she might get on a bus and travel a 1000 miles with no money and no plan. She might knock on your door at 2 am, or send you strange postcards with writing that barely makes sense.
Sometimes when I go about my day, I stop and remember that she is living her life in a small apartment without much furniture, and few belongings, because she has taken a vow of poverty. She is lonely, feels useless and isolated, and, like a child, is unaware of the way the world works. If I allow myself to consider her world for very long, I can't feel mine. Anxiety, numbness, the shallow breathing that happens when I am in her presence, they take over when I let Betsy into my day.
But I can't let the grief consume me. I cannot let my empathy swallow my capacity to feel joy. If I do, I will drown. And so as my mind considers her day, and what it's like, I step away and focus on the flower in the neighbor's yard, or the dog barking for a walk. I say a little prayer. I allow myself to forget, until I remember. And perhaps on Sunday I will cut out a cartoon or two from the newspaper and send them to my sister.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Summer Time And The Livin' Is Easy
This is the day my daughter, Mosey, gets to switch back from the Incredible Hulk to a sweet, likable teenage girl. School is out today. Yearbook signing, paying lost book fees, shouting "woohoo!," all those things are being repeated in school hallways around the city. I'm doing my own little woohoo too. Mosey dreads school. She will not say that. If you ask her she will tell you school is fine, but for the last three months she has been late almost every single day. There is a reason for that.
Mosey has theater classes that she adores and excels in, but her other subjects create a low grade dread and a high amount of stress. I don't know what her grades will be this term, but the topic is not up for discussion with Mosey. At her age, and with her particular personality, forcing school issues does nothing but create an immediate escalation of fear. Consequences for undone homework only lead to more undone homework. Discipline is not the issue here. As smart as Mosey is, academics triggers a deep fight, flight or freeze response in my girl.
As someone who did ok in school and was reasonably responsible about homework, it has been a huge learning curve having children who struggle to stay engaged in an academic setting. They are both quick and sassy, able to take a look what's in front of them with insight and logic. Neither likes to sit and write or study however. It's like a buzzer goes off in their brains after an hour and it keeps beeping until they get up and do something else.
If academics is not Mosey's thing, I'm ok with it. The thing that makes this whole situation hard is that Mosey is not ok with it. I can't explain the dynamic except to say that she is happy out of school, stressed and miserable while in school, and yet Mosey thinks she should be pursuing an academic path after graduation.
I guess we all take our sweet time in discovering who we are and what we truly want to do. For those who don't have children at this age, let me tell you, standing back and letting your kids find their way is pretty damn hard. It's especially so for me because I grew up watching watching my mom function in the thrash/spiral-downward mode. Because she was mentally ill it never stopped. No lessons were ever learned, no progress ever made. So when anyone in my life does any thrashing at all I tend to freak out internally. My fear kicks in. My mind goes straight to all the possible outcomes with the word "misery" in them. This is not a good thing for a parent to do. What can I say? I'm working on it.
One more year and Mosey is out of the public school system. Yes, I look forward to that day more than she does I think. In the meantime sweet summer is here. Mosey has a job she loves and NO pressure. Under these circumstances, a delightful young woman emerges. She has a sense of humor and energy to do things. She is good company, talkative, cooperative, patient. Last spring, a mom - daughter weekend trip away from all the pressure of school gave me a glimpse of this exceptional young lady. I'm glad she'll be back. I'm hoping the peaceful, laid back mom will be hanging out too. Good times.
Mosey has theater classes that she adores and excels in, but her other subjects create a low grade dread and a high amount of stress. I don't know what her grades will be this term, but the topic is not up for discussion with Mosey. At her age, and with her particular personality, forcing school issues does nothing but create an immediate escalation of fear. Consequences for undone homework only lead to more undone homework. Discipline is not the issue here. As smart as Mosey is, academics triggers a deep fight, flight or freeze response in my girl.
As someone who did ok in school and was reasonably responsible about homework, it has been a huge learning curve having children who struggle to stay engaged in an academic setting. They are both quick and sassy, able to take a look what's in front of them with insight and logic. Neither likes to sit and write or study however. It's like a buzzer goes off in their brains after an hour and it keeps beeping until they get up and do something else.
If academics is not Mosey's thing, I'm ok with it. The thing that makes this whole situation hard is that Mosey is not ok with it. I can't explain the dynamic except to say that she is happy out of school, stressed and miserable while in school, and yet Mosey thinks she should be pursuing an academic path after graduation.
I guess we all take our sweet time in discovering who we are and what we truly want to do. For those who don't have children at this age, let me tell you, standing back and letting your kids find their way is pretty damn hard. It's especially so for me because I grew up watching watching my mom function in the thrash/spiral-downward mode. Because she was mentally ill it never stopped. No lessons were ever learned, no progress ever made. So when anyone in my life does any thrashing at all I tend to freak out internally. My fear kicks in. My mind goes straight to all the possible outcomes with the word "misery" in them. This is not a good thing for a parent to do. What can I say? I'm working on it.
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Advantages of Being Disorderly
I had a lot to do today.
I was going to buy a new computer -- Yay! It's only been probabaly 15 years since we bought a new one.
I was going to go to the Emergency Essentials store and buy a big barrel for water storage -- With all the disasters going on over the last few months, I think having 55 gallons of water in our basement would be a good thing.
I was going to pay the bills -- A big one is hanging over my head and I want it taken care of.
I was going to go to the gym -- I've gained weight because I've been depressed and I eat to make myself feel better.
I was going to go the temple -- Always a good idea.
None of those things happened.
I did get to the bank. I did help a friend who needed to talk on the phone for quite awhile. I did help a lady in our ward who needed me to do something for her on the computer. I did read the paper, walk the dog, and later go to the dogpark. I did go to Office Max to buy printer paper, pick up Mosey's med's, (Mosey is my daughter--I'm calling her that in my blog because she loves to mosey everywhere she goes) and buy some milk. I also took a shower, listened to a book on CD while in the car, read my email, and now I'm writing this blog.
So some things got done--- but I feel guilty. Why? It's because I can't compete with JJ. He is superman, super-organizer, super- task doer. Those qualities are his gifts. He is the energizer bunny with an intense need to put all things in order. Give him a list and watch him go. But I am . . . well, I am pretty much a human version of Winnie The Pooh. I had someone tell me once that I have small motor. It's true. In my day to day life at home, I get overwhelmed easily and I struggle to stay moving at a brisk pace. I need a little smackeral after I've done a chore, or have run an errand. I need to sit down and just veg after interaction with other people.
I know I would probably get more done if I left behind this guilt I carry around about not getting things done! I do much better when I stop beating myself up and let go of the anxiety. The other day I was quite down, and when I decided it was perfectly fine to feel down, I started feeling better. Weird, huh?
So what's my point? I guess my point is that although I am now in an anxious state about all the things I didn't do, the friend that I spoke with on the phone is doing better, my dog is happy, the woman in my ward who asked for my help will get her internet list of cars for sale, and because I blogged I will be more content, having exercised my writing muscles today.So it's all right to give myself a little Pooh Bear pat and say ta-ta to the guilt. The unexpected and fulfilling things took priority, and for me, that's usually how it goes.(tiddley-pom)
"One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries."
--- A A Milne
I was going to buy a new computer -- Yay! It's only been probabaly 15 years since we bought a new one.
I was going to go to the Emergency Essentials store and buy a big barrel for water storage -- With all the disasters going on over the last few months, I think having 55 gallons of water in our basement would be a good thing.
I was going to pay the bills -- A big one is hanging over my head and I want it taken care of.
I was going to go to the gym -- I've gained weight because I've been depressed and I eat to make myself feel better.
I was going to go the temple -- Always a good idea.
None of those things happened.
I did get to the bank. I did help a friend who needed to talk on the phone for quite awhile. I did help a lady in our ward who needed me to do something for her on the computer. I did read the paper, walk the dog, and later go to the dogpark. I did go to Office Max to buy printer paper, pick up Mosey's med's, (Mosey is my daughter--I'm calling her that in my blog because she loves to mosey everywhere she goes) and buy some milk. I also took a shower, listened to a book on CD while in the car, read my email, and now I'm writing this blog.
So some things got done--- but I feel guilty. Why? It's because I can't compete with JJ. He is superman, super-organizer, super- task doer. Those qualities are his gifts. He is the energizer bunny with an intense need to put all things in order. Give him a list and watch him go. But I am . . . well, I am pretty much a human version of Winnie The Pooh. I had someone tell me once that I have small motor. It's true. In my day to day life at home, I get overwhelmed easily and I struggle to stay moving at a brisk pace. I need a little smackeral after I've done a chore, or have run an errand. I need to sit down and just veg after interaction with other people.
I know I would probably get more done if I left behind this guilt I carry around about not getting things done! I do much better when I stop beating myself up and let go of the anxiety. The other day I was quite down, and when I decided it was perfectly fine to feel down, I started feeling better. Weird, huh?
"One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries."
--- A A Milne
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Just When You Thought It Was Safe
That's why I stopped and took a good look this morning when I noticed a circle of birds gathered on the lawn of a house a few blocks away. I was walking the dog and saw at least a hundred birds in a clump, cooing, and pecking at the ground. I took a firmer grip on the leash because my dog loves to chase birds. I thought she would try to dart across the street to their position the minute she noticed them, but she was oblivious, busy smelling some dog smell on our side of the road.
I couldn't resist however. This was really weird. Why were there so many birds in one place? I crossed the street, staying far away enough so that they wouldn't scatter at my presence. I talked to my dog and told her we had to stay back, but she made no attempt to go over to them. That was very strange too. Then I noticed another creepy thing. There were birds sitting on the roof, lined up on the edge, just like in the movie. And there were also some on the porch, perched along the railing.
I thought about walking close enough to see if they would startle and fly away, but I decided to leave the scene undisturbed. Somebody probably dropped a loaf of bread and a dog scattered it on the lawn, or a child wanted to see if she could lure a flock in with some unexpected treat. That's probably all it was, right? Right?
It's so interesting how something so harmless can be made to appear evil through film, editing, and music. Hollywood has even made inanimate objects, like cars, suspect. I mean don't ever name your car Christine.
When I was in school, I made a short film for my beginning filmmaking class that used the same type of story, only the evil lurking behind the seemingly benign was in the form of a therapist. (I 'll let you decide for yourself whether you think there could be a grain of truth to that one.) When I replace my ancient computer with a brand new Imac that has a DVD player, I'll post it.
In the meantime, watch out for those things you consider most harmless. Keep an eye on the family cat, cicadas, potholders, cans of tuna. You never know when they can turn on you. :)
Monday, May 30, 2011
BluTang On His Birthday
Yesterday was my son's birthday. I'll call him BluTang because he's a big fan of Wu Tang Clan, and has a very strong melancholy side to him. Blutang loves rap, but has a sense of humor about it. He loves to sing some of the more ridiculous lyrics from the genre. I never listen to any of it on the radio, so my first exposure to all rap hits are through BluTang's renditions. If I happen to hear the real version I'm usually disappointed. Blutang is way better. If all rap music were translated through him, I'd love it. Lyrics so stupid and serious, are thrown out with a deadly dry humor that is irresistable. I swear when I am taking my last breaths, I'm going to call BluTang to my bedside and say, "sing 'Cash Rules Everything Around Me' again."
So BluTang turned 22 yesterday. The day before, we took him to lunch, and then, last night, had dinner at grandma and grandpa's house. BluTang was a good sport. He endured an hour of Mexican Train before he and his girlfriend took off. His girlfriend, (I'll call her, Idina, because my daughter thinks she looks like Idina Menzel, the Broadway star) is very competitive and was getting into the game a little. Likable girl this, Idina. I'm glad BluTang has someone like her in his life. Very glad.
When BluTang's birthday rolls around each year, I do the obnoxious mother thing and recite all the stories about him from his childhood. It drives him crazy I'm sure, but I'm hoping that as irritating as it is, it will help him remember those days, and send a strong message that he is, and always has been loved.
Sometimes Blutang breaks my heart because he doesn't know how really good and smart he is. He has grown out of the overwhelming shyness he had as a child, but I see a look in his eyes now and again--the one that is still searching for a weighty, solid sense that he is worthwhile. I believe he is gaining on that realization, although it does its best to stay just out of his reach.
Blutang has some holes that he has to dig himself out of right now. But I see the shovel flying. I'm hoping that the next step is to build a big beautiful structure, one that he can design, and put together from the ground up, one brick at a time. He has so many things going for him, including liking the movie, Annie Hall, like his mom, and loving to hike in the wilderness like his dad. But most of the amazing qualities in Blutang are his own in every way.
BluTang's big brown eyes have always held a secret knowing of something. Even at 6 months old, as he stared down the ridiculously solemn judge at his adoption proceeding, it was obvious to everyone in the room that BluTang was going to touch some hearts. The court clerks smiled and tried to stifle giggles while they watched BluTang zero in on the judge with a wide-eyed gaze that was not going to break until there was some kind of connection. BluTang was peaceful, but unwilling to look any other place but into the face of the man in the robe. Finally, the judge couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't maintain his distant attitude. He smiled. BluTang won.
I hope he keeps winning.
So BluTang turned 22 yesterday. The day before, we took him to lunch, and then, last night, had dinner at grandma and grandpa's house. BluTang was a good sport. He endured an hour of Mexican Train before he and his girlfriend took off. His girlfriend, (I'll call her, Idina, because my daughter thinks she looks like Idina Menzel, the Broadway star) is very competitive and was getting into the game a little. Likable girl this, Idina. I'm glad BluTang has someone like her in his life. Very glad.
When BluTang's birthday rolls around each year, I do the obnoxious mother thing and recite all the stories about him from his childhood. It drives him crazy I'm sure, but I'm hoping that as irritating as it is, it will help him remember those days, and send a strong message that he is, and always has been loved.
Sometimes Blutang breaks my heart because he doesn't know how really good and smart he is. He has grown out of the overwhelming shyness he had as a child, but I see a look in his eyes now and again--the one that is still searching for a weighty, solid sense that he is worthwhile. I believe he is gaining on that realization, although it does its best to stay just out of his reach.
Blutang has some holes that he has to dig himself out of right now. But I see the shovel flying. I'm hoping that the next step is to build a big beautiful structure, one that he can design, and put together from the ground up, one brick at a time. He has so many things going for him, including liking the movie, Annie Hall, like his mom, and loving to hike in the wilderness like his dad. But most of the amazing qualities in Blutang are his own in every way.
BluTang's big brown eyes have always held a secret knowing of something. Even at 6 months old, as he stared down the ridiculously solemn judge at his adoption proceeding, it was obvious to everyone in the room that BluTang was going to touch some hearts. The court clerks smiled and tried to stifle giggles while they watched BluTang zero in on the judge with a wide-eyed gaze that was not going to break until there was some kind of connection. BluTang was peaceful, but unwilling to look any other place but into the face of the man in the robe. Finally, the judge couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't maintain his distant attitude. He smiled. BluTang won.
I hope he keeps winning.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Blood Lessons
I went to the temple last night. I picked up a friend and met JJ for the 7pm session. For those unfamiliar with LDS temples, they are sacred places set aside for worship, and for making covenants with the Lord. We also do baptisms, and other ordinances, by proxy, for the dead inside of temples. If that sounds unfamiliar, check out 1 Corinthians 15:29.
In order to go inside and participate in an LDS temple you have to be a member of The Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter-day Saints. You also need to meet certain standards such as faith in Christ, honesty, fidelity in marriage, etc. It is the house of the Lord, so keeping it pure and holy is paramount. Of course, none of us is perfect, but those who are sincere in their efforts to obey God's word, and seek to apply the atonement of Christ in their lives daily, can enter. The temple is a place for Latter-day Saints who are trying their best, and asking God to make up the difference.
When you go to the temple you change into white clothing. The white is to symbolize the purity of Christ and the purity that can be attained through relying on His atonement. Street clothing, and fashion are left behind. Inside temple walls; we become followers of Christ instead of shoppers of clothes. No one knows if you are a banker, a secretary, a food stamp recipient. Removing the trappings of the outside world takes away all those labels and restores spiritual perspective. We meet there as children of God, worshippers, humble servants.
Last night in the temple I had a rather unexpected object lesson about my reliance on Jesus Christ. As I sat in my white dress waiting to move into another room. I did something really dumb. It was one of those things that you do even while having a fleeting thought that maybe you shouldn't. I rubbed my hand against my opposite elbow and felt a tiny little scab underneath my dress. It was a scab that I didn't know was there. It wasn't even a quarter of an inch, but there it was presenting itself to me. "Surprise! Hey, here I am. Pick me, pick me!! Come on, I'm so little. Just get rid of me." It did cross my mind that it could bleed, but it was so small and harmless, and there was that overwhelming desire to PICK. So, I did.
I'm sure you can guess. After a quick little scrape of my fingernail, the scab came off, and my mind went on to others things. I forgot about it-- until we started walking down the hall. My friend suddenly stopped me and asked, "Are you bleeding?" Yup, there it was, a bright red spot of blood about an inch wide. As we moved into the Garden Room I showed JJ, and looked at him with wide-eyed expression of "Now what do I do?" He just smiled and said, "I'm sure you'll survive."
So I went ahead with the temple session. I knew the wound was minuscule. Hopefully, not a lot more blood would be pouring out. The thing that was upsetting to me was that there I was, in the temple, in the midst of everyone dressed so beautifully in white, with a horrid. red blotch of blood on my dress. I could keep my arm low and hide it, but we would be getting up again, moving around. Surely everyone would see, and wonder why I would come to the temple with an ugly stain.
I sat with my hand covering the spot, and awkwardly kept it there when we walked to the next room. Finally, my friend asked me, in a whisper, "Do want a safety pin?" She took my sleeve, doubled the material over the stain, and pinned it. It looked little strange, but was hardly noticeable compared the scarlet circle it was covering.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and let myself relax. I could go home later, put some stain remover on, and maybe it would come out. In the meantime, it was hidden. That's what we try to do with our shame. I'm not talking about illegitimate shame that we sometimes carry from difficult childhoods. No I mean the that stuff that clings to us when we screw up and we know it. We do anything to hide it. We awkwardly, childishly, contort ourselves to cover it up. We don't want anyone to see. We know we are not pure or clean. And the longer we try and hide it, the more anxious we become. Instead of focusing on what's before us, we are focusing on the very thing we are trying to hide.
As I sat in God's house with a big old stain, it felt disrespectful. However, no one was scolding me, giving me dirty looks. The discomfort was within me. Why didn't I just leave the scab alone?. I could have waited. I could have resisted, but I didn't. I did the thoughtless, impulsive thing to do. It was just a small thing, with no ill intentions, but still it bled, and as much as I wanted to be clean like the others in the room, I wasn't. Are the parallels here not obvious?
Thank goodness for a Savior. Thank goodness for His power to wash our stains away. So ironic, so intensely astounding is the fact that He has done it with His own blood. Should it really surprise me this lesson was taught in His Holy House? While I sat in my shame, the realization came that He has done all things for me, for you. He can lift us out of the mortal struggle if we look up and see His outstretched hand. I will go back to the temple next time, with my dress crisp and white.
In order to go inside and participate in an LDS temple you have to be a member of The Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter-day Saints. You also need to meet certain standards such as faith in Christ, honesty, fidelity in marriage, etc. It is the house of the Lord, so keeping it pure and holy is paramount. Of course, none of us is perfect, but those who are sincere in their efforts to obey God's word, and seek to apply the atonement of Christ in their lives daily, can enter. The temple is a place for Latter-day Saints who are trying their best, and asking God to make up the difference.
When you go to the temple you change into white clothing. The white is to symbolize the purity of Christ and the purity that can be attained through relying on His atonement. Street clothing, and fashion are left behind. Inside temple walls; we become followers of Christ instead of shoppers of clothes. No one knows if you are a banker, a secretary, a food stamp recipient. Removing the trappings of the outside world takes away all those labels and restores spiritual perspective. We meet there as children of God, worshippers, humble servants.
Last night in the temple I had a rather unexpected object lesson about my reliance on Jesus Christ. As I sat in my white dress waiting to move into another room. I did something really dumb. It was one of those things that you do even while having a fleeting thought that maybe you shouldn't. I rubbed my hand against my opposite elbow and felt a tiny little scab underneath my dress. It was a scab that I didn't know was there. It wasn't even a quarter of an inch, but there it was presenting itself to me. "Surprise! Hey, here I am. Pick me, pick me!! Come on, I'm so little. Just get rid of me." It did cross my mind that it could bleed, but it was so small and harmless, and there was that overwhelming desire to PICK. So, I did.
I'm sure you can guess. After a quick little scrape of my fingernail, the scab came off, and my mind went on to others things. I forgot about it-- until we started walking down the hall. My friend suddenly stopped me and asked, "Are you bleeding?" Yup, there it was, a bright red spot of blood about an inch wide. As we moved into the Garden Room I showed JJ, and looked at him with wide-eyed expression of "Now what do I do?" He just smiled and said, "I'm sure you'll survive."
So I went ahead with the temple session. I knew the wound was minuscule. Hopefully, not a lot more blood would be pouring out. The thing that was upsetting to me was that there I was, in the temple, in the midst of everyone dressed so beautifully in white, with a horrid. red blotch of blood on my dress. I could keep my arm low and hide it, but we would be getting up again, moving around. Surely everyone would see, and wonder why I would come to the temple with an ugly stain.
I sat with my hand covering the spot, and awkwardly kept it there when we walked to the next room. Finally, my friend asked me, in a whisper, "Do want a safety pin?" She took my sleeve, doubled the material over the stain, and pinned it. It looked little strange, but was hardly noticeable compared the scarlet circle it was covering.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and let myself relax. I could go home later, put some stain remover on, and maybe it would come out. In the meantime, it was hidden. That's what we try to do with our shame. I'm not talking about illegitimate shame that we sometimes carry from difficult childhoods. No I mean the that stuff that clings to us when we screw up and we know it. We do anything to hide it. We awkwardly, childishly, contort ourselves to cover it up. We don't want anyone to see. We know we are not pure or clean. And the longer we try and hide it, the more anxious we become. Instead of focusing on what's before us, we are focusing on the very thing we are trying to hide.
As I sat in God's house with a big old stain, it felt disrespectful. However, no one was scolding me, giving me dirty looks. The discomfort was within me. Why didn't I just leave the scab alone?. I could have waited. I could have resisted, but I didn't. I did the thoughtless, impulsive thing to do. It was just a small thing, with no ill intentions, but still it bled, and as much as I wanted to be clean like the others in the room, I wasn't. Are the parallels here not obvious?
Thank goodness for a Savior. Thank goodness for His power to wash our stains away. So ironic, so intensely astounding is the fact that He has done it with His own blood. Should it really surprise me this lesson was taught in His Holy House? While I sat in my shame, the realization came that He has done all things for me, for you. He can lift us out of the mortal struggle if we look up and see His outstretched hand. I will go back to the temple next time, with my dress crisp and white.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)