Mostly the Ugly

So I was just wonderin'...when exactly did I become a jealous person?

I know there have been times that I've been jealous of something here or there.  But this seems different.  More systemic.  I'm not sure if facebook makes it worse, or just holds a mirror up to what was already there.  Here are some of things I find myself envying these days...

-people who are married
-people who are engaged
-people who are dating
-people who have children
-people who are pregnant
-people who are adopting
-people with money
-people who are being poor together with someone they love
-people with friends that live in the same area
-people who get to be with family a lot
-people whose family vacations together
-people who don't live alone
-people who get to travel
-people who live overseas
-people who get to go on vacation; any vacation; even a crappy, cheap, overnighter; as long as they get to do it with someone they like
-people who have their moms around (even if they're complaining about said mom)
-people who are part of a church
-people who wish they had more alone time
-people who wish they didn't have to wash so many diapers
-people who are dealing with the stress of wedding planning
-people who have someone to sit with at church

Did I mention the systemic thing?

So I'm this weird combination of emotional and logical.  You would think these two things would balance themselves out, but they don't.  At least not in my head.

Anyway, in my head I know that jealousy is an emotion and emotions don't necessarily correspond with truth.  I know that the truth is that I am blessed.  I know that jealousy usually stems from a lack of thankfulness.  I also know that I have a LOT to be thankful for.  Really.  I'm not just trying to sound spiritual.  God has blessed me.

So I think, yes.  I shall be more thankful.  But then this sort of thing happens:  "God, thank you for this cute little house you've given me to rent.  I'm so thankful that I'm not sharing walls with strangers...of course, it's always so quiet and lonely.  I wish I had a family to fill it up..."

That didn't go so well.  I try again.

"Lord, I really appreciate this new job.  It's so so so great.  If only I had someone to tell about my day when I come home.  Someone to share my life with.  Someone who wants to hear from me as often as I want to be heard."

What the what?!?

So then I'm like, "Ok, I suck at being thankful.  If I can be thankful better, I should be less jealous.  So I need to be better at thankfulness...now how to do that?"

Ask God to show me people who have it worse than me.

Right?!?  You're sitting there on the other side of your computer nodding in encouragement.  I can almost see you.

Yah.  I thought that was a good idea, too.  Here's how that went...

"God, look at that person.  Her husband is battling cancer.  She's probably going to be a widow in less than a year.  She's got two kids.  God, would you bless that woman?  And not to seem harsh, but thanks that my husband isn't dying of cancer.  I really hate cancer."  And then I think of that saying, "It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all."  And I think, at least she'll have her memories.  She'll always know that once there was a man who loved her and chose her.  At least she'll have her children.  Then I feel like a total jerk.  And I still don't feel thankful.  Guilty and frustrated.  Not thankful.

Is this too real for you?  Have you stopped nodding encouragingly and started backing away from the computer?  If so, I wouldn't really blame you.  I'm not especially impressed with myself, either.

Anyway, there it is.  I've become a jealous person.  I hate it.  I don't know how to fix it.  I am open to (and hoping for) godly counsel here.  If you've successfully overcome this problem, do me a favor and tell me about it!  Thanks.

Thirst

I’ve been trying to figure out a way to explain it.  Feelings can be hard to capture.  Challenging to explain.  Impossible to justify.

It’s like I’m thirsty.  Not just, “I could use a drink.”  But the kind of thirsty that makes a person willing- no, thrilled; DESPERATE to put their face into a warm, stagnant brown puddle and suck up as much water as possible.  This is how I feel socially.  I’m so VERY thirsty, and I’ve been thirsty for so long that I can’t really remember how it feels to be fully hydrated.

So this is me- real thirsty, to summarize, and I see water everywhere around me.  I know it’s in every house, at every restaurant, in every mini-mart, but I can’t seem to get at it.  If I want the water, I have to ask for it.  Which is fine.   I don’t mind asking, but when you ask for water, people give you just a little bit.  Like a thimbleful, or maybe a shot-glass worth.  And I am so thankful for that little bit of water, but it doesn't meet my need.  Before I’m even done swallowing my body is crying out for more.

Like those last weeks each year in elementary school, before school let out and you had just come in from the sweltering blacktop of recess.  You waiting impatiently in the raggedy line for your turn at the drinking fountain, thinking you could drink a whole gallon of water right now.  Your turn finally arrives and you slurp up every single drop.  You don’t even worry about your ponytail, lying forgotten in the puddle of the basin.  You drink with the fervor of a castaway who’s finally found a stream of sweet water, and then suddenly your teacher announces that your turn is over.  The kid behind you is on your heels and though you’re nowhere near done, you’re forced to move on. 

You’re not going to die.  You will survive until your next chance to snatch a drink.  But you’re still thirsty.  Forever thirsty.

People visit me.  I visit people.  Sometimes someone stays the night, or I get a few visits in a row.  This is good.  I appreciate those gulps of social-water.  But then they leave.  I drive back to my little house.  Alone.  I go to work alone.  I come home alone.  I spend my evenings alone.  I go to bed.  Alone.  There is so very much alone in my life; alone-ness that soaks up the social-moisture like a giant, dry sponge.  Ruthless and uncaring of my constant social-dehydration headache.

Why am I like this?  Am I the only one?  I try to do what I can to fix it.  I try to be friendly.  I make myself vulnerable over and over, to meet people; to make friends; to try a new Bible study or church.  I go where the water is, but I’m still so thirsty.  

I know I’m needy.  And I wish that I could change that but I don’t know what to do about it.  How to fix it.  How to get the water I need.

Just so thirsty.

Grandma Nell

Yesterday morning my dad called to tell me the news that I knew was coming:  Grandma Nell had passed away.  Grandma made it nearly 93 years, and when we found out in February that she had cancer and it had spread, she was easily the person in the family who was most ok with her own mortality.  Grandma was ready to go.  She wanted to meet her savior, and be reunited with many loved ones who had gone before her.

And that was good.  It helped make the process easier for most of the family, I think. I'm really thankful to have gotten to see Grandma twice between her diagnosis and her death.  We had a chance to enjoy being together and to say goodbye.  So when I got Dad's call on Friday, I was ok.  I was sad, but ok.

And today I'm remembering Grandma.  I remember first her kindness.  Anyone who knew Grandma would remember first her kindness.  Grandma Nell is probably the only person I've met in my life that I would classify as truly good.  I know the theological implications of this label, and I use it anyway.  Do you remember the passage in the Gospels (Mark 10:18) where somebody addresses Jesus as "good teacher", and Jesus asks him, "Why do you call me good?  No one is good except God alone." ?  Well, I'm pretty sure that if Grandma Nell had been around when Jesus walked the earth, Jesus' answer would have been a little different:  "Why do you call me good?  No one is good except the Father in heaven...and Nellie House is probably next in line."

In 33 years of interaction with her, I never once heard Grandma say an unkind or critical word to, or even about, anyone.  Not one.  It's a family joke that the closest Grandma ever came to swearing was to call a driver who had just cut her off in traffic a "dumb bunny".  [author's note:  I guess this comment could be considered a critical word, but as this event took place before I was born, I don't count it.]

This morning as I laid in bed and listened to the birds calling out tidings of spring to each other, I thought of Grandma.  I thought of summer visits sleeping in the attic bedroom, carefully coming down the steep, narrow staircase to the smell of coffee and bacon.  Of helping hang up clean laundry on the line.  Of playing by the little creek in the yard and riding the two green bikes (with pedal-powered headlights!!) around Hasket Lane.  Of the only time I ever saw Grandma run:  when I told her Brittony said she was going to throw up in the bedroom (wow, she didn't look fast but boy-howdy could Grandma move!!).

I look at the spring flowers, announcing the promise of rebirth and renewal, and I remember the time I picked a flower out of Grandma's flowerbed to give to her.  Because Grandma loved flowers- even her pre-school aged grandchildren knew that, and my 4 or 5 year-old brain didn't have any concern other than making Grandma smile.  I recall being confused that Grandma wasn't as delighted as I was.  She thanked me kindly, in true Grandma-fashion, and then gently explained that the flowers like to stay in the ground.  If you take them out of the ground, they will die.  Oops.

Today for lunch I had chicken-dumpling soup, which reminded me of my favorite Grandma Nell soup: chicken-corn-rivel.  It made me sad that I didn't have a chunk of cheddar or colby cheese to slice off and eat.  Grandma made a mean homemade soup, and it was usually served with cheese and crackers.

It's strange to think that I have received my final letter from her; that there will be no more trips to St. Marys for a visit; that I can't ask her any more questions about my mom's childhood; that she isn't here anymore.  On the other hand, I'm really happy for her.  I don't think any of us really know how heaven works, but I know it's there; and I know she's there.  And I hope she's having a grand old time, with a new body that doesn't need a pacemaker or hearing aids.  I hope she's enjoying catching up with her parents, siblings, friends, husband, and her youngest daughter- my mom.  I hope they're telling the same old family stories and looking forward to the day when we'll all be together again.  I know I am.

Just Be

Tonight I was thinking about my mom; how I miss her; what I would want to do or say to her if she were to somehow magically appear before me for a few hours.  Would I ask her questions about heaven?  Would I tell her what she's missed in the past 8 years?  And I came to this conclusion:  I would just want to BE with her.

Like my first visit home from college.  I say I was homesick only because I know of no other way to convey the fact that I was next-door to crazy with missing my mom.  My parents moved me in on a Saturday; said goodbye on a Sunday, and I thought I would actually die of heartache before I could get home again that Friday night.  Yes.  I made it a whole 5 days.

My mom hugged me a lot that weekend, and for the last hour or so before I had to leave on Sunday afternoon, we just sat on the couch together.  Actually, she sat, and I laid there, with my head on her lap.  She smoothed my hair back.  Tear slipped silently down my cheeks and soaked into her jeans as I tried to brace myself for the return to college.  We didn't talk.  I drew strength and courage from her for the journey.  We were just being together.  I needed to be with her.

If I could have her back, even for an hour, I wouldn't ask her anything.  Or tell her anything.  I would just want to be together again.

And as I was thinking about that truth, it occurred to me that this is what God wants of me.  He wants me to feel about Him the way I feel about her.  He wants me to want to just be with him- not to always ask him for things, as if he were a divine genie.  Not to always tell him stuff, as if he needed catching up on my life.  He wants me to want to be with him.  Just be still.  Enjoying each others' presence, and resting in the comfort of knowing that here- here is someone who knows me inside and out, and still couldn't love me more if he tried.  Someone whose feelings about me don't change- not when I fail, and not when I succeed.  Here is love and acceptance that is steady, just like the one who offers them.

He wants me to be with him; to draw strength and courage for the journey from him.  Just be.