Archive for the The Journey Category

Meet Tank. He’s my new fitness buddy. He is a beautiful brindle boxer and he is full of beans. That means he has lots and lots of energy. That is great news because we are a high energy household. One of the very things things we did was get him a few toys. The next thing I knew he was running back and forth with my youngest beastlet fetching and wrestling and tackling. Boys and puppies! They are not happy if they’re not trying to pin someone to the ground.

On Sunday I pulled out the yoga mat and showed Tank how to do crunches. He displayed good form.

And I’m sure he’ll have washboard abs in no time. Speaking of abs, my oldest beastlet has been doing crunches again(there must be a girl) and is set on having the physique of a greek god. I tell him, “I have washboard abs too. They’re just hiding under the fat.”

After my mat work I looked at Tank and said the magic words. “Would you like to go for a walk?”

I don’t think Tank knows what walk means yet but I put on his new harness and away we went. We did the full tour of Ferguson and I think I had more fun than the dog. I can tell he’s not used to walking on a leash much yet but he’ll get the hang of things.

Here is us after the walk. I actually think this walk is what made me really sick. I’ve been fighting a virus for the past week and a half and now I have bronchitis. I had to go to the doctor yesterday and get real medicine. The great thing about going to the doctor is, well, my doctor. Doctor Hana is the best! She is so supportive of my healthy lifestyle.

She said, “I haven’t seen you in a while.” I said “Right. I’ve been trying to stay healthy.” She chuckled and said, “I see you’re keeping the weight off.” And I proudly declared, “I’m never going back to the way I was. Never.” I really like my doctor. I love how proud she is of me. Also, I love that I’m not afraid of the scale in her office anymore.

Today I am sitting at home, sick, but counting my blessings. I am so glad we have a new canine friend in the house. My children are laughing. My husband dares to smile. And me? I still miss my friend, Hodges, but it’s good to move forward. I look forward to sharing more about my new buddy and our adventures.

Sometimes life is wonderful. A friend gives us an unexpected gift which fills our hearts with gladness. We carefully pull open the flower covered gift bag and lift back the tissue paper. We realize the gift giver knows us well because the gift is something we have longed for. We look at our friend and marvel at the deep love that exists between us and know there is no greater joy.

Sometimes life is difficult. We face a challenging task at work that stretches us far beyond our boundaries. We begin to worry. Can we accomplish what we set out to do? If we don’t, will be get demoted or even, gulp, laid off? So we push and press until our brains turn into puddles of jelly. We sit in the rubble of a half-completed project and sigh. We feel like Charlie Brown. “Good grief.”

We live our lives in this tension. Between gladness and difficulty. Between melancholy and utopia. Between heartache and bliss. Sprinkle in a handful of shattered expectations and things really get interesting.

When I was younger I didn’t know how to deal with the twists and turns of life, but as I age I realize I have learned to navigate to a certain extent. I remember having complete meltdowns about my car breaking down but now I shrug it off and go to plan B. I watch the new mothers at work walk in looking disheveled from a sleepless night and think, “Yep! I remember that.” But when I was experiencing it, I thought it was the end of the world.

And then there is death. (Oh, great! She’s writing about death. Fantastic!) Actually, I don’t want to get too deep here. I only mean to say that this is one area I will never learn to navigate. Sure, I can get used to it, but it will never feel okay. We lost my husband’s grandmother last year and I still think about her daily. I miss her presence. I miss her grouchy comments. I miss how proud she was of me for accomplishing my goals. I’ll never see her again on this earth and it hurts. And then I lost my beloved dog, Hodges. I knew he was ill. I knew he wouldn’t live forever. But I never thought about the fact that one day he wouldn’t be with me anymore. I look at pictures and just ache. When he was alive I didn’t realize how his presence filled every nook and cranny of the house. As a result of that loss I have learned to embrace my remaining dog, Gwen. She has new toys, new bones, new treats, and I keep hugging her like there’s no tomorrow. And now I know, one day she won’t be here anymore either. These thoughts are paralyzing.

But I choose to leverage those thoughts with all the wonderful things and somehow the sad things become more bearable. When I think about Spring and the Dogwood trees in bloom, of the garden rippling with fresh lettuce and juicy strawberries picked right from the plant, I sigh. For every sad experience, there is an equally joyous experience. Life feels a little like a scale teetering back and forth between extremes.

We choose our outlook on life. I met a woman in the grocery store the other day who was very unhappy to stand in line. I tried to talk to her and cheer her up but she continued to complain. I told her there was a family whose daughter was taken from them senselessly this week and as a result she would not hear me complaining about anything. She said, “Sometimes complaining helps people!” Her face was all pruney and she had a set to her jaw that proved nothing I said would change her mindset. I responded, “I respectfully disagree” and prayed the cashier would hurry.

I’m sitting in my bedroom after waking up at 3:00am. I have been ill this week and have had little sleep. I did not have the luxury to call in sick to work and as a result I am totally exhausted and drained. My children are screaming and fighting as I write this. 10 years ago I might have crawled under my bed and cried. But today….

Today, I’m looking out the window and all I see is the beautiful sun, shining like a golden promise. And I know this is only a season. I know I will get better. My children will grow and move on with their lives and my house will be quiet. Today, I choose to bask in this moment because right now I have the opportunity to experience pain and bliss in the same moment.

And this moment in my life feels like a precious miracle, stretched out like prisms hanging from a clothesline to sparkle in the sun. I am filled with wonder!

Joni was 16 years old when she dove into Chesapeake Bay. She had everything going for her. She was young, beautiful, and full of energy. She was swimming with her sister, Kathy, who became concerned when she didn’t surface. It was Kathy who pulled her from the water, soaking wet, stunned and paralyzed from the neck down.

Imagine the horror of realizing life as you knew it was over. Imagine you were confined to a bed with no hope of ever leaving it. Imagine your boyfriend shaking his head as he explains he just can’t handle it and won’t be coming to visit any longer. Imagine a stream of endless days spent staring at the ceiling or the floor, unable to even take your own life. In my worst dreams I can’t conceive what that would feel like.

I was eating lunch with friends yesterday when a woman stopped to say hello to me. She mentioned that she met me at a Weight Watchers group meeting some years back, after I had lost 100 pounds. She said she had never been able to get my story out of her head and was, in fact, just thinking about me a few days before. She said, “I see that you’ve lost even more weight.” I didn’t remember her face but I remember sitting at that meeting. I remember feeling alone, hopeless and seeking a way to deal with my food addiction. I sat in a room with a bunch of heavy people and thought, “These people understand my problem but they can’t fix me.” Yesterday, she patted me on the shoulder before walking away and said, “It’s great to see you. You are such an inspiration.” Her comments made me feel uncomfortable, as did the succeeding words from my friends. Maybe they didn’t notice I had just finished inhaling my food. They couldn’t feel my stomach, expanded and tight. They didn’t know my pants were cutting deeply into my waist or that I was already thinking about ice cream and how badly I wanted it. They didn’t know I would spend the afternoon fighting off the urge to eat Valentine’s cookies that had been provided for the department next to mine. They just smiled and laughed and said, “Margaret, you need to have more confidence in yourself.” They mean well. And I love them. But they can’t see the darkness inside my heart and how desperately I am fighting against it. I don’t feel like an inspiration to anybody. I feel like a drowning man trying to climb out of a pit of tar.

Joni Eareckson Tada is my inspiration. She understands the darkness of physical, emotional and mental deterioration. While her journey is different than mine she knows what it means to suffer and to choose to live. After all, it really does come down to choice. When confronted with the unimaginable, we can choose to shut down or move forward. I admit, some days I choose to shut down. I need to soak in the pain and grieve the brokenness of this world I live in. I take comfort in the food I so desperately crave and then deal with the resulting guilt and tight clothing. I realize my size has no relevance to who I am in the grand scheme of things. I just feel like I should have a label on my forehead that says, “Weak.”

Joni wanted to give up. She longed for death. But her friends and family wouldn’t let her go. They pushed through her anger, through the walls she put up, and through the despair that gripped her heart. They loved her through and showed her the way out. She has talked openly about her friend, Steve Estes, who continued to visit her in the hospital, even when she told him not to. He told her about Jesus and forced her to make a choice.

Today, Joni is the head of Joni and Friends, an international ministry that helps paraplegics and others who are crippled in spirit. She speaks into the lives of those abandoned and hurting, and offers hope. She never got the miracle she prayed for…to walk. She does all this from a wheelchair because she is still paralyzed from the neck down and does not have the use of her arms or legs. She is not perfect. She’s not a saint. But I listen to her because to me, her words have power. They have power because she speaks from a position of pain. She has to deal daily with bedsores, pneumonia, fatigue and an incapacitated body. Yet she sings and speaks of hope.

Come to think of it, maybe I am a little like Joni. I am constantly dealing with the choice to give up and lie down, or live. Maybe that is why people find my story inspirational. Today, though faced with disappointment over something I was really hoping for, I choose to live. And believe me, it’s a lot harder than it looks. But no one ever said courage was for the faint of heart.