Destination Discipline

I’ve hit that stage of life where I’m less concerned about tiptoeing around my spouse’s feelings and more concerned with [sugar-free] chocolate. I’d rather run [from no one in particular], clean the toilet, or climb up on the roof and empty rancid gutters than listen to his opinions. To be really blunt, I’m more concerned with real life things. I’ve spent countless hours of my life arguing over things of no real consequence and I’m tired. He’s not a bad guy. In fact, he’s probably like a lot of guys. But this current political environment has him spouting like an angry volcano. It’s annoying. And I’ve got more important things to do.

I remember fondly when we used to watch news and get excited about what was happening in the world. We were like doe-eyed children the way we consumed and regurgitated popular alphabet television news (ABC, NBC, CBS, etc). But that was before I learned the news was more soap opera and corporate opinion piece than literal truth. Everybody’s got spin, and I got dizzier [and sicker] than a cotton-candy stuffed kid on a merry-go-round. No more. I’m off. But my husband is still a happy passenger.

Lorelei Gilmore

I thought tuning out was an excellent strategy until it wasn’t. Each morning starts the same way. He spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom reading headlines and then exits to a full pot of coffee. He drinks and spouts. I tune out. He gets bored with my disengagement and leaves. I sigh in relief. The problem is, he still wants to connect. So, at the end of the day, when I am most tired from working, cooking, washing dishes and cleaning up after my pets, my dear husband has started following me to my evening television routine. He wants to converse about my shows. But this is not acceptable! His observations are not only annoyingly rude, but they are also eerily accurate. I used to enjoy Gilmore Girls or Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but it’s hard to enjoy a show when your spouse constantly points out the flaws of the main characters.

Puny Steve Rogers

So last night I did something to avoid this kind of catastrophe. I picked a movie I knew he’d want to watch, Captain America. The original film from 2011 staring Chris Evans as Steve Rogers was one of the most boring movies I’ve ever seen. They lost me when they digitally attached Chris Evan’s head to a puny body for the first 30 minutes. And the villain, (Hugo Weaving) was over-the-top ridiculous. When he ripped his face off to reveal a red skeleton face, I was so bored, I fell asleep. I have blissfully avoided Marvel movies for the past decade or so and I plan to employ this tactic going forward. My husband loved the movie, but I guess my snores were disruptive.

But my dear husband still wants to connect. The older we get the less we seem to have in common. He wants to watch a movie but I’d rather read a book. He doesn’t read unless it’s “news” related. I would rather gouge out my eyes and eat them than read or talk about current events. This is a real problem.

Therefore, I have decided to start reading history again. Revolutionary War history, here I come.

I’m not saying my husband is interested in history, but at least I’ll have a better diversionary tactic when he starts talking about our current president. At least then I can retort with, “Well, you know Benedict Arnold led troops in the Battle for Quebec, which, as you know was the first major loss in the American Revolutionary War.”

Yes, Rick Atkinson’s “The British Are Coming” is better than anything on television today. And at least I know there’s a happy ending.

The honey bees are buzzing around my compost pile, gnawing at the watermelon rinds and mango skins. Their tiny mandibles are collecting food for their hive while I watch with awe. I wonder where they sleep, who they are feeding, and what the honey will taste like. The little golden bees make me exceedingly happy.

While the bees harvest, the robin chirps from the branches overhead. He takes breaks from singing to strip the few remaining dried fruits from  nearby bushes. I wonder if he is as curious about me as I am him. I toss a few mealworms out to draw him in, but the starlings gobble them up before the other birds can lift a wing to glide down.

I wish I had wings. I would join them. I would dive and flap and prance and sing. I wouldn’t worry about all the things that occupy my mind on spring days. My brain is cluttered with work responsibilities, disappointments, and stress over what I’ll wear tomorrow. My pants are angry because I haven’t been as disciplined with my diet. But if I were a robin or a bluejay, no one would call me fat or say I need less cholesterol. Because if they did, I would poop on their head.

I’ve been in a lot of meetings at work lately. It feels very unnatural. Yesterday, the people in our meeting were frustrated with the amount of sunlight coming through the window. The lever was broken so we had to call maintenance to fix the shade. It took two electricians to fix the wiring and bring the shade down. Everyone clapped and hurrahed when the last beacon of light was snuffed out. This is what corporate life turns one into: light-hating zombies who celebrate artificial bulbs and meaningless words projected from machines.

I’m an oddity. I know it. My co-workers know it. I’m cynical, salty and have crustier edges than a sailor. Some days it takes super-human strength to hold in all the comments I want to say about our business. There was a time when I felt comfortable sharing my thoughts and ideas to improve work conditions, but after the elimination of my job and my team, I’m much less inclined to say anything. It feels like it’s only a matter of time before they realize I’m irrelevant and add me to the list of unemployed wastrels.

Which has got me to wondering…what is my purpose there? If I’m not passionate about the business world and its endless chasing of “wallet share”, why do I participate in it? I don’t feel valued or appreciated—two things our leaders say are important for job satisfaction. They use slogans like, “you matter!” And then lay off hundreds of people. I used to care. I used to love going to work and helping people. I loved my team and the people I supported.

There is a Jon Foreman song I love called, “Terminal”. It has a poignant verse: “Some folks work in offices, one day at a time. They could live a hundred years but their souls already died. Don’t let your spirit die before your body does. It’s terminal.” The message of the song is clear: every day is precious and every life is precious. Be kind. Love your neighbor. Life is short. But this is not my daily lived experience. It is just me or do others feel this way?

I want to start a bee hive. The bees inspire me. I have started doing research and I recently saw a post in a bee group about the loss of his hive after a cold snap. All the bee community offered helpful hints for what could have caused the deaths of the bees. It wasn’t just the cold. But what really moved me was how the picture of the hive showed little bee butts hanging out of the combs. Several people discussed how when the temperature drops, the bees face inward and act as insulation for the heart of the hive. They shiver so hard as to keep the bees near the queen warm so that even if they die, the queen and nurse bees might live. I want to live in a colony like that. I want to be so enmeshed in my community that the people around me are willing to sacrifice their comfort or maybe even their lives for my own. And I want to do the same for them. We have something to learn from bees: every member of the colony has a purpose, from the drone to the nurse bee.

The corporate world doesn’t think this way. It never will. Even so, it feels wrong to criticize it when I’m still working in it. I’m thankful for my job and the luxuries it affords. But I’m really ready to start my farm, grow my own food and get some bee hives. Then, I’m going to stand in a field filled with wild blackberries and wildflowers and let the sun warm my face. And then artificial conference rooms with dark shades will be only an incandescent memory.

^”Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.“ – Matthew 18:21-22

I have often wondered how many times I can forgive my son. It seems like a small thing to wonder, or maybe even something trivial. After all, Mother’s are supposed to love their children unconditionally. I wonder, is there a difference between loving someone and choosing not to be abused by them? Yes, I believe there is. We can choose to forgive someone and not be in a relationship with them any longer. We call this placing a boundary on the relationship. But how does this work when the “someone” is your child?

Have you ever looked at someone and wished you had something they possessed? Maybe they had a beautiful car or a gorgeous home while you are stuck with leaking pipes and a saggy roof. Did you walk away seething with envy? Did you fester with jealousy and wonder at the unfairness of life? I have a confession to make: I have looked at families with normative children and felt this way.

It is a difficult thing to write about: loving a child with emotional problems. It is hard because people judge you without knowing the full context. I see posts from people with children who have cancer or some other kind of terminal illness. Everyone rallies around them to donate funds for treatment or offer kind words. But those of us with children diagnosed with emotional illnesses often suffer in silence. Sure, we may try to talk to our friends or relatives, but often times they compound the pain by saying things that are hurtful, or at the very least, unhelpful.

A few years ago I was talking to a relative during a particularly terrible time and he told me the behaviors my son exhibited were my fault. He then spent 20+ minutes explaining why this was the case while I listened with tears streaming down my face. It gave new meaning to the phrase, “Double double toil and trouble” from Macbeth by Shakespeare.

Why did God make my son this way?

Is it okay to ask God questions? Sure it is. But I’ll be honest, I don’t always want to hear the answer. Frankly, I’d rather sit in a corner and keep company with self-pity. I’d rather adopt a victim mentality and self-soothe. But where does this get me? Nowhere good, and fast. But even if I have all the answers, my son is the same. Is God teaching me patience? Yes. Is God making me more like Christ because I partake in suffering as He did?  If I allow Him to, yes. Is God using my son’s emotional problems for His glory? Of course.

But why does it have hurt so much?

One can’t reason with a broken heart. 

There is often a breakdown between my lived experience and God’s truth that I am constantly trying to reconcile. God’s word says he loves me, but I don’t feel loved when my child is screaming hate filled slurs at me. God’s word says I am never alone, but no one is with me when I soak my comforter with tears. God’s word says He is strong when I am weak, but I can’t lift my head high enough above the shame of yet another call from a principal and another school disciplinary hearing. There is nowhere to hide where pain and heartache don’t find me. It is … intolerable.

“Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed.” – 1 Peter 4:12-13

My son screamed at me, “I f-ing hate you. Get out of my room.” And then he spit on me. I stood there shocked, but not surprised. I have never been spit on before. How can I love someone so much and be hated by them? What did I do to deserve such vitriol? I have spent thousands of dollars on medications, therapies and counselors and my son is not well. There is no happy ending. There doesn’t seem to be any hope. What do I do? Where do I go for help?

Does God really love me?

I was walking laps around the lake with tears streaming down my face again. How many laps will it take to calm down this time? Two? Ten? I had a distinct thought: “God, do you love me at all?” Before I could blink I felt a response in my spirit. “Margaret, I love you for all time.” I suppose it’s all circumstantial and the rational person will say I was only talking to myself, but I was comforted in that moment by a timeless truth, Christ died for sinners like me.

”But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” – Romans 5:8

If I am to believe what the Bible says—and I continue to choose to believe it whether I feel like it or not—God will forgive me if I confess my sin to Him, even if that sin is doubting His love and care. I often doubt His goodness because my circumstances are so dire. And I praise God that He forgives me each and every time. And if He forgives me, shouldn’t I forgive my son?

“Now who is there to harm you if you are zealous for what is good? But even if you should suffer for righteousness sake, you will be blessed. Have no fear of them or be troubled.” – 1 Peter 3:13-14

I recently heard a youth pastor say that if a parent was having trouble with a child, that parent was probably doing something right. He reasoned that parents who are parenting well often get push back. It is human nature to rebel against authority. I used to brag about my rebellious nature. I threw that disgusting trait around like a badge of honor. No longer. I see the sin of rebellion now like a black cancer devouring healthy cells. Why? Because I have been on the receiving end of irrational disgust and hatred. I reached out my arms in love and was spit on in return.

“But they all cried out together, ‘Away with this man, and release to us Barabbas’—a man who had been thrown into prison for an insurrection started in the city and for murder. Pilate addressed them once more, desiring to release Jesus but they kept shouting, ‘Crucify, crucify him!’ A third time he said to them, ‘Why, what evil has he done? I have found in him no guilt deserving death. I will therefore punish and release him.’ But they were urgent, demanding with loud cries that he should be crucified. And their voices prevailed. So Pilate decided that their demand should be granted. He released the man who had been thrown into prison for insurrection and murder, for whom they asked, but he delivered Jesus over to their will.” Luke 23:18-25

They hated a man who healed their sickness and disease. They cried out for him to be murdered. Yet when he died on the cross he prayed, “Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.” Can I do the same?

If I follow Jesus, I must walk the way He did. I must forgive my enemies and pray for those who persecute me. This is a hard teaching. It is counter cultural. And yes, it means enduring undeserved abuse.

I’m not sure who needs to read this today. I don’t know how you found your way to this blog or my musings on forgiveness. I only know that I must forgive my son because Jesus forgives me. My personal experience is that I don’t have peace if I don’t obey. I also know that I now personally identify with Jesus as he was flogged and mocked and spit on. Dear Friend, this is a beautiful thing.

I often walk in the park when the burdens of this world become too heavy. On a different day I walked in the early morning hours before work and confessed to God that I was too tired to carry my burdens any longer. I prayed out loud, “Lord, please carry my burdens for me. They are too heavy and I’m tired.” I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders in that moment. I suddenly felt a lightness of heart. And then a little bird flew down in front of my path—not three feet away—and in the early light of dawn as it pecked at the snow, it hopped towards me. The bird was smaller than a sparrow and had a fiery orange strip on the top of its head. It was a bird that had no business in Missouri. Later, I could find no bird in my books or online that matched its description.

The Lord delights to carry our burdens when we ask Him to. He knows they are too heavy for us. And He often speaks to us in ways our hearts will hear Him best. For me, that day, it was through a little bird hopping on the snow covered ground in front of me. That little bird signified the deep love of Jesus for a broken woman lamenting the loss of normalcy in her child.

God has gifted me with the ability to love and forgive my son in the midst of unspeakable pain and trauma. God has uniquely gifted me with the strength and stamina to love and forgive even when it feels most impossible. If He does this for me, He will do it for you as well. You need only ask and then surrender your burdens to Him.