P is for PARTY

It's that time again.  Time to get out the party invitations.   Make the lists - food, decorations, tables and chairs, it's time to celebrate another high school graduate!  I sent the cards to the printer yesterday, finalized the guest list last night and then began organizing the 'to do' list.  And it was overwhelming.  It sounded so simple at the get go.  Let's have some friends over to celebrate.  Let's have an open house.  And being a 'big picture' kinda girl - it seemed like an uncomplicated thing to do.  But, it really isn't.  And the more I thought about all that needed to be done, the more concerned I became of getting it all done.  But, being one who learns from past experiences, (H is for Help) I decided to call some friends.  The first friend said she was camping and wouldn't be able to help.  No problem I told her - have fun!  The second friend I called, I didn't even get a chance to ask.  She monopolized the entire conversation with how overwhelming her life is right now.  I thought of a third friend, who had initially promised to help, but the date conflicts with previous plans so she's out - and I began to sense an old familiar feeling.

It starts like a wave - gently lapping at my feet.  Over the years, I have begun to recognize it.  And most days, I can step right out of its flow before it overtakes me - but last night, I didn't want to move out of its destructive path.  I wanted to be swept away.  Thoughts of  depression began to swell and I could feel the pull of its current. And I knew at that moment that I needed to walk away - but I didn't have the fight in me.  And so I sat there, with the phone in my hand and I began to listen to the voices in my head.

"No one ever helps you."  The soft whispers began. 
"You are alone." 
"You can't do this."
"If they loved you - they would help.  No one must love you."

I thought about calling a fourth friend - one who had just that morning assured me of her help - but by now the waves lapping at my ankles had become a rip tide dragging me out to sea. 

"Why do you even try?"
"Look around you - everyone else helps everyone else - but no one helps you"

And suddenly I found myself at another kind of party.  A dangerous one.  A destructive one.  I was having a pity party.
I got up and walked away from the table.  I still felt the pull.  I still felt the longing to go to my room, and pull the covers over my head.  But I walked to another room of the house and tried to distract myself.  I didn't have the energy to truly fight it off, to go to my knees in prayer and banish it from my home.  The truth is, there was a part of me that really did want to be carried away - but enough of me knew that doing so was a selfish, self absorbed pathetic path that I didn't want to walk.

And, writing this now, in the light of day, it really does sound pathetic.  "Really, Susan," I chastise myself.  "All of that over planning a party?  No wonder God doesn't call you to big tasks - you can't even handle a party."

Did you catch that - the waters are starting to rise again.  Even in the process of seeing how stupid it was to be upset I can spiral into dark, unhealthy thoughts.  You see, it wasn't the party planning.  It was when I focused on what I don't have, what I don't get, what I, I, I...it was when I took my eyes off of the God of the universe, the one who loves me with more passion and zeal than anyone I know, when I took my eyes off of the one who saved my soul - the one who right now is preparing the ultimate party, that is when the waves of depression begin to swell.  When I no longer care about those around me - when all I can see is me - that is when I can be easily swept away.

I wish I could conclude this post with some sage words of wisdom of how all is now good and I am 100% focused on God and His love for me - but I'm not quite there yet.  I know what I need to do - pray, read scripture (especially the Psalms), but all of that takes energy that today I do not possess.  So, instead I will end by saying, I am not over taken by the waves.  I am standing firm - but the water is still there, lapping at my feet.  And some days, it is just good enough to not drown, to not go under. Because otherwise I will begin to chastise myself for not being stronger - for being weak and the waters will rise.  Not today.  Today I am not going to a pity party - I am turning down the invitation.

E is for...

When I was in college I would visit my grandfather who lived in a convalescent home. I liked visiting with my grandfather, but I hated the smell and the sounds of where he lived. It wasn’t that it was a bad place – but the whole place reeked with the smell of cleaning supplies and soiled beds. Hallways were jammed with white haired people whose heads bopped up and down while they dozed on and off in their wheelchairs. Their crinkled hands folded in their laps, moving slowly to wipe the corners of their mouths while television sets tuned loudly to random stations would drown out the wails of some. Each time I would visit, I would stop before entering the building and take a deep breath – both to steel my nose and to strengthen my resolve. Then, I would open the door and head to his room as fast as I could. I looked neither left nor right so that I did not have to see the people in the hallway. I kept my vision focused so I would not have to respond to anyone’s calls or comments. I was there to see my grandpa. My feet knew where to go and I could make it in 22 seconds – right before I needed to take another breath. But when I went with my father, it was a much different experience.

I remember the first time quite clearly. As we came within reach of the door to the building, I took my usual deep breath and prepared to move as quickly as possible to my grandfather’s room where I could breathe again. But when my dad opened the door, he turned to the right AWAY from his father’s room. He walked straight into another resident's room, and greeted the woman lying in her bed – by her name as if he belonged there. He took her ancient hand in his and squeezed it softly. He asked about her children and her grandchildren. They talked about her great-granddaughter that had just been born. He stayed with her for only a few minutes – but to me, an impatient 18 year-old, it felt like an eternity. “What are you doing?” I wondered. “We’re here to see grandpa – let’s go!”

He left her and he walked to the doorway of the next room. He called out to the bald headed man wearing a baseball cap, who was seated in his wheelchair. He was sleeping to the blaring sounds of a Bonanza rerun and did not respond. My father walked up to him, touched him gently on the arm, and said his name again. The man startled slightly, then broke into a huge grin and grabbed my father’s arm and welcomed him. They spoke for a while about baseball and players and teams and who was going win the pennant. And again my impatience swelled up within me and I tried to move him towards the door. “Grandpa,” I muttered to myself. “We are here to see grandpa!”

After we left his room, we stopped again, and again and again. My father proceeded to greet everyone who sat in the hall, who lounged in their room, or who was meandering in the corridors with their walkers, by their names. He would stop, bend down, touch their hands, pat their arms and chat with each of them as if he knew them. And the walk to my grandfather’s room took over half an hour. Although I managed to keep a smile on my face and join my father in saying hello to each and every single person, I was beyond irritated by the time we got to my grandfather's room. My father paused for a moment at my grandfather's door, “You know, Susan,” he said, “for some of these people, I am their only visitor. Many of the people in here don’t have family nearby, or their family is just too busy – or too disinterested to take the time to visit. For some of these people, I’m the only one who sees them.”

And I was instantly both ashamed and amazed by that simple, but profound comment –“I’m the only one who sees them.” There have been so many times in my life when all I needed was just to be seen, to be noticed – when all I wanted was someone to look me in the eyes and say, “I know you are here. I see you. You are not alone.” I've always known that there were many qualities I wanted to ‘inherit’ from my father – but on that day I wanted none more so than his eyes.

Being seen is powerful. It makes us feel human, respected, treasured, loved. It can validate our worth. It can lighten whatever burden or pain we are carrying. When I see someone, truly see them, I am acknowledging that they have value, that their existence matters. I am still so not good at this ‘seeing’ thing. I still get wrapped up in my own agenda, my own problems, my own priorities, and I still fail more often than not to see the people around me. But as I grow older, and hopefully wiser, I am learning to see the people in my world. All the people, not just the ones I know. Random people, strangers, I need to see them just as much as the ones I love. And I mean really see them, look them in the eyes, touch their arm, shake their hand, and hopefully let them know they have significance. They have worth. They are valued and they are not alone.

E is for my Father’s Eyes…

Give it Now or Pay it Later...

It was one of those moments. I was in a hurry. I had just spent 4 hours shopping in downtown LA for a prom dress for my daughter. I needed to get home so I could get to work. I was tired. I was rushing – focused on weaving my way through the crowded sidewalks so I could get to my car quickly. I was fixated on one thing; Get out of LA, fast. It’s ironic how you can have one of those moments right in the middle of one of those other kind of moments.

Without warning, time ceased. I was rushing – but I was stopped. I was 120% focused on my mission to get out of LA, and yet all my attention was on the man – the blonde, unshaven, scruffy, dirty man with a tattered blue backpack on his shoulder. He was asking for a dime.

“A dime?” I thought. “He’s only asking for a dime?”

“I haven’t eaten in three days.” He said. “I just need a dime to get a hotdog.”

My instinctive reaction was, no. I can’t.

“Can someone help me?” He called out. “Please?”

“No,” I said to myself. “I don’t have any money.” which is usually true. We are on a strict budget and I almost never have cash. But today I did. I had a lot of money with me. Money left over from buying the prom dress. Money that we had not yet spent on shoes and jewelry. But I also had other money with me – my money. Money I had been saving. I had $15. It had taken me 12 weeks to save $15 dollars out of our air-tight Dave Ramsey Budget. It was my money. Money to buy myself a cup of coffee, or a yogurt, or a pair of earrings. It was my money to spend on anything I wanted. And I wanted to save it. Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t saving for something I lacked. Everything I need, and the general things I want, we pay for out of our budget. This money was to be spent on something I wanted. And I wanted to save it until I could do something really frivolous.

So I stuck my hand in my purse to grab a dollar to give to the man who hadn’t eaten in three days. But my fingers were sticky from the bacon wrapped hotdog I had just eaten. It was a perfect hotdog – crispy bacon wrapped around a juicy hot dog piled high with onions and peppers and pico de gallo and avocado and mustard… And my fingers stuck to a ten dollar bill instead of a one. “Give him the ten” I heard myself say to myself. To which I replied, “No. He only asked for a dime. I am being much more generous than he expects.” My fingers were sticky and I couldn’t shake off the ten. “No,” I said again to myself with more conviction. “Hot dogs are only $3 and if he is only ten cents away from getting a hotdog, then he doesn’t need a ten. He doesn’t even need a one.” I continued to shake the money from my fingers. “No – I am not going to give him $10.” One last shake and the ten dropped to the bottom of my purse. I found a dollar and I thrust it at his hand while I continued to rush towards my car. Back on track, time took its place again and I was on my way. I don’t even think I looked him in the eyes. I don’t even think I missed a step.

I got home on time, finished my work and sat down to record the money I had spent in LA and to account for the cash I had left over. I added the receipts and counted the cash. I counted the cash and added the receipts. Again. And again. I was off. I was missing $20. I mentally retraced my day. I carefully recalled each transaction. I had kept every receipt. And yet, I could not find the $20 anywhere. Suddenly I saw the man on the street and I could hear the voice in my head gently nudging me to give him $10. And I could hear me, selfishly, stubbornly resisting the voice. And I began to wonder…

What if it had been God’s voice asking me to give the man $10? What if God knew the need in this man’s life and it wasn’t ten cents – or a dollar, but it was ten dollars? And what if God knew I could give him the money and so He asked me to do it? What if it was God’s voice asking me to help this man, this man He loved? And I said no. No God, I want this ten dollars to spend on me.

To spend on me.

I didn’t need it. I just wanted it for me. I hadn't felt prompted to give him everything I had. I hadn't even felt compelled to give him some of the money I set aside for my daughter’s prom. I only felt nudged to give him a portion of “my” money. A small portion. And I said no.

I took the remaining $14 of “my” money out of my purse, and I put it in the envelope with the money that belonged back in our account. I took this week’s allotment of $5 that I give to myself from our budget each week to spend on myself, I and put it in the envelope too. And next week, I will put in one dollar more from my allotted 5, to replace the missing $20. Not because I have to to pay our bills, but to remind me that everything I have is not mine. It is and always will be God’s.